


Mercy

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Vaugly 1940s, Vicar!John, self-hate, small town, so don't question it, some mention of bigotry, this is gonna hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson asks God to save him while wounded in the desert. When God does he figures he'd better pay him back. After two years as a vicar at a large parish he finally gets to move to a small town and have a parish of his own.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes asks God to save him, while deep in depression. He receives no answer. Some people, it seems, have to make their own redemption.</p><p>A man of God and an all out heretic, the only thing joining them being their thinly veiled self loathing. Well, that and the fact that they are swiftly, and with little mercy, falling in love.</p><p>Hebrews 4:16-</p><p>King James Version (KJV)<br/>Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.</p><p>Titus 3: 5-</p><p>he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hardly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/gifts), [kitmerlot1213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmerlot1213/gifts), [Jurybury](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jurybury), [Oleta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oleta/gifts), [kree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kree/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts).



> I don't believe in God. This is a work of fiction.

It was the third day with sun, the ground long dried from the previous bout of rain, but it was still fairly cool out. John locked up the vicarage, for he was a man of God but knew the ways of others all too well, and zipped up the lightweight jacket he'd found the first day he'd moved in.

"Used to belong to the last vicar," the housekeeper, though she called herself something else, had said. "He left in a rush. Interesting fellow. Wouldn't have done well populating the world, if you know what I mean."

She'd let him have the jacket and he reckoned he looked rather good in it. It fit nicely and when he pulled the collar up he felt proper civilian. He wanted to feel that way on his first trip into town, wanted people to meet him before all the assumptions that came along with his position. 

He'd taken the position after the end of his army career came in the form of a bullet. He'd lay in the sand looking up at the sky, feeling for all the world like he was going to die, and spoke to God for the first time in twenty some odd years.

"Please, God," he'd muttered, the pain feeling like fire, "let me live."

For another man it would have seemed like a random thing that he'd spoken those words and not died, for him it felt like a sign. He'd lived, something he still didn't understand, and so he'd done what he thought he must; pay God back. He'd been a sinner, after all, and it felt like an act of contrition.

It was something he thought on often; when the urges arose, when the companionship of a loyal hound wasn't enough and he longed for a body in his bed, a male body.

He whistled to Merrick and mounted the bike, taking off along the path to town and trying his best to look, if not happy, then, at peace. Merrick trotted beside him, the young foxhound he'd taken in to ease some of the worst loneliness, sniffing the air and easily keeping pace. 

He didn't ride fast, after all, couldn't at that point. He'd only managed to ride again recently. He found that riding had the benefit of reminding his leg that it had full range of motion and resulted in a less pronounced limp than he'd started with. The pain was fine. Pain was cleansing. Pain was, well, more contrition, he supposed.

He was looking out at the long fields to his left and letting Merrick go ahead when it happened. Merrick raised an alarm and he barely had the time, let alone wherewithal, to stop his bike before hitting the peculiar fellow.

The man lay on his back in the middle of the path, eyes fixed high up on some fluffy cloud. He chewed a piece of grass and looked for all the world like he was thinking of very important things. He didn't seem to even hear the quick yip from Merrick or see the dog rounding on him and sniffing away.

John felt his anger, at being surprised by one so obviously unaware of their position, rise in his chest and tamped it down as best he could as he dismounted the bike. He walked closer, from his place at the man's feet, and was struck by how the man's hair fanned out against the soft tan of the ground. He was handsome in a way, eyes light in colour and changing somehow, high cheekbones and riotous curls, ringlets like a cherub.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Merrick, apparently done with his sniffing, sidled up to the man and lay on his side with his head in the crook of the man's arm. John snorted at the hound and the man's arm came down to pull him close and scratch him behind the ears, still seemingly unaware of John's presence.

"What are you doing out here, Merrick?" the man asked, his voice low and rich. "Shouldn't you be off with your new owner?"

John took another step closer, the creak of his bike embarrassingly loud to his own ears, and cleared his throat.

The man finally looked up at him, blinking rapidly and cocking his head to the side. "What are you doing here?"

John laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "I could ask the same of you. You do realise you're in the middle of the path, don't you?"

The man looked around himself and sat up. "So I am."

John couldn't help but smile at the whole strangeness of the situation. "Well, if you wouldn't mind-"

"Are you going into town?" the man interrupted. John nodded slowly and watched as the man rose and dusted himself off, Merrick running around his legs in tight circles and jumping to get another scratch. "Well, come on then. Don't dawdle. And I hope you have something interesting to say. This town is dull enough without the dullards who live here."

John watched him go for a while, completely gob smacked, and then hurried to catch up.

"You walk with a limp but you ride a bike well," the man said when John finally caught up. "You hold yourself like military. Are you on leave? Boring place to spend your leave. Should have gone to the city."

"I'm not," John tried.

The man turned to him and looked him up and down, strange eyes boring holes into him.

"On leave, that is," John added.

"Oh," the man said, eyes narrowing and walking again. "Ah, the limp. Discharged. Traumatic injury. Not in the leg, though, as that's psychosomatic...could I see the wound? Haven't seen a good wound in years. Well I suppose I'm not taking into account Mr Willis. Last summer he was pulled into some farm machinery, wrenched his arm. I was lucky enough to be in the morgue when they removed it."

"H-he died?" John sputtered, smelling sand and feeling wind in his hair.

"From a wrenched arm? Of course not," the man said, rolling his eyes. "The morgue is next to the surgery. I heard the screams. Fortuitous timing, though."

John felt so off his footing by the way thoughts seemed to spool out of the man unbidden that he had to interrupt lest he be pulled under by them. "You work in the morgue?"

"God, no," the man said, the blasphemy not missed by John. "The morgue attendant owed me a favor."

"What is it that you do?" John asked, realising this man must be an important part of the town if the morgue attendant owed him a favor and he was allowed in the surgery during procedures.

"Nothing," the man said, turning in a circle and plucking a flower to tease Merrick with, "and everything."

"That would make for quite the business card," John said.

"I'm a scientist, obviously, a student of human behavior, a chemist and detective and a lover of all things macabre and disgusting," the man said, tossing the flower over his shoulder with finality. "And I work with the police, unfortunately."

John laughed and when the man simply gave him a serious look he explained. "Even more interesting a business card."

The man stopped walking and for a brief moment John worried he'd offended him, then the man smiled. It was a beautiful thing, slightly lopsided and showing a bit too much of his teeth and completely changing his face. He wasn't handsome, he was glorious. Otherworldly. Captivating...and walking away.

John walked a bit faster to catch up with him, his leg smarting. They had made it right to the edge of town and John cleared his throat.

"What's your name?" the man asked, turning around and looking John up and down again.

John was embarrassed by his answer. He hadn't gone by his Christian name in years. Before he was Vicar Watson he was Dr Watson, and before that, Private Watson. He wasn't meant to be going by his Christian name. He said it anyhow. "John."

"And what do you do, John?" the man asked, the name rolling off his tongue.

"It's not really John," John explained, unzipping his jacket. "It's Vicar Watson."

John didn't expect the other man's face to fall and then be schooled into disinterest. He also didn't expect the way it would make him feel; hollow, mistaken.

"Oh. The new vicar. Should have seen that," the man said flatly. "There's always something."

John looked on as he turned to walk away. "I'm, uh, heading this way," John said, pointing in the opposite direction and scrunching his nose up at the fact that Merrick was looking between them as if to say he didn't know who to follow.

"Have a meeting with God?" the man asked.

"You-you never told me your name," John shouted, snapping his fingers at Merrick.

"No, I didn't," the man replied, without turning around.

John breathed deeply and stood up straighter. "I suppose I'll see you on Sunday?"

"Hardly," the man replied, quickly changing course and walking into the Chemist's, the bell above the door not sounding like a goodbye in the least .

John stood for a moment, Merrick panting up at him, before removing his jacket and making his way in the direction of the pub, limp back in full force.

 

_____

Sherlock watched him go from the tinted window of the Chemist's. Something low in his belly turned and he frowned. Man of God. Dull. And he'd had so much promise.

The Chemist called to him but he batted her away, watching the new vicar limp along like a kicked dog.

_____

John found Greg near the back of the pub and sat with him, Merrick curling up at their feet. The barmaid came over with a pint for him and he simply pushed it in Greg's direction.

"Vicar Watson," Greg said, finishing his own pint. 

"Detective," John replied, looking around at the dim room.

"Detective Inspector," Greg corrected with a small smile. "Been a long time since we last met."

"Congratulations," John said distractedly in the low hum of the crowded room.

"What's on your mind?" Greg asked, reaching down to give Merrick a few pats.

"I just met the most...well, he was just, so very...I don't actually know how to explain-" John tried, thinking back through their walk and becoming even more confused.

"Tall, dark and perpetually frustrating?" Greg asked with a snort.

John finally turned back to him, nodding and taking a sip of the water he was offered. "Is he one of your constables?"

"No. He's a pest. Brilliant, but a pest. Sherlock Holmes," Greg answered.

"Is he still a child?" John asked. He'd looked young, early twenties if anything.

"In his thirties. Should've known he'd rile you up," Greg laughed.

John cleared his throat and chewed on his lip, not sure why he was so unhappy with how things had ended. "He doesn't seem very fond of my position."

"Don't think he's very fond of God," Greg said. "Supposes he's too smart for any of that nonsense."

John gave Greg a withering look and Greg held his hands up.

"His words, not mine, Reverend."

"Well, I'll have to see if I can turn that one around," John said.

"He's a lost cause," Greg insisted. "What you should be doing is meeting the available women of the town. My secretary is a sweet one, you might-"

"Stop it," John said, with a sigh, reaching across the table and taking back his pint. "You know I'm not looking for a wife."

"Course not," Greg said sarcastically. "Why get a wife when you've got a perfectly fine dog?"

John took a long sip of lager and rolled his eyes. "Leave it. Speaking of dogs, how does Merrick know this Sherlock fellow?"

"His brother bred him. The whole litter, besides Merrick, went for hunting. Sherlock has always had a soft spot for dogs. People, not so much," Greg answered.

"Really? He seemed rather friendly," John replied, reaching to the middle of the table for a napkin.

Greg looked at him then. "Sherlock Holmes? Friendly?"

John nodded and wiped his mouth. "Well, yes, why?"

"You're in for it. Like a terrier with a rat, that one. Something tells me he'll show up Sunday. Might not come in, but you keep an eye peeled. You'll make your wage," Greg said, shaking his head and putting his hand up for another pint.


	2. Nature

There were three days between meeting Sherlock and John's first sermon. Three days that he could reasonably have stopped thinking about the man. Three days he, instead, spent obsessing.

The obsession would have been a simple preoccupation, if not for the words Greg had uttered. Sherlock didn't like people. Sherlock was unfriendly. 

The statements didn't mesh with how Sherlock had acted during their walk, open and overflowing with the need to interact. They did, however, fit perfectly with how Sherlock had acted in the moments after he found out John was a vicar. He'd turned cold, a put upon disinterest changing the entire way John had first perceived him. He'd been frustrating, yes, but in the way something completely unknowable is frustrating, the way it pulls you in and confounds you. He had a feeling that wasn't the frustration Greg had been referring to.

So, when he rose from his bed that Sunday, sermon practiced and memorised, he was still thinking entirely of Sherlock. Lunacy. He'd met thirty people in the first week he'd been there and the only person he thought of when he went down to open the front door to the rectory was Sherlock. Thirty people, yet the only one he wanted to ask his housekeeper about was Sherlock. Thirty people, milling in and sitting in pews, and the only one he looked for was Sherlock.

He didn't show. It shouldn't have shaken John, as he'd said as much, but he found himself disappointed by the fact. 

After the sermon was long over and John was standing before the vicarage saying goodbye to the stragglers his spirits were lifted by the giddy way Merrick left his side. Surely, no one else in the town had any particular draw on the dog.

He looked out among the drying grass, following Merrick's trajectory with his eyes, and saw Sherlock sitting at the base of a large tree. He tried not to smile widely and continued his conversation with the last of the parishioners, then walked back into the rectory and made his way to the kitchen.

_____

There was a slight wind picking up, tossing the long blades of grass back and forth like waves. He joined Sherlock under the tree with a bounty wrapped in a flour sack towel. He sat silently and unfolded it, laying out the half loaf of homemade bread, hunk of cheddar, bottle of lemonade and small bottle of mustard. Merrick was laying on his back, stretching so that the sun could touch as much of his skin as possible, and ignoring John completely.

"Hungry?" John asked, cutting a piece of cheese from the block with his pocket knife.

Sherlock stayed silent but took the cheese, chewing silently and looking up into the tree. John sliced some bread and made himself a half sandwich, then went about eating it.

"Good sermon?" Sherlock asked at last.

John shrugged and opened the lemonade. "I certainly hope so. If it wasn't, people might not come back."

"They aren't there for you," Sherlock disagreed. "They're there because of their own guilt. Guilt eats at you. Guilt won't let go."

"Does guilt concern you?" John asked, cutting off another bit of cheese and passing it to Sherlock as if he was trying to win over a frightened animal.

"It concerns you," Sherlock replied, taking the cheese.

"Sorry?" John asked, trying to be more vicar and less human.

"Guilt. It concerns you a great deal. I'd bet guilt was the whole reason you got into this field," Sherlock said offhandedly. "What was the sermon about, anyhow?"

"Community," John replied, voice hollow. "Are you upset that I'm a vicar?"

Sherlock scoffed and stared resolutely at the ground. "No."

"You're acting it," John shot back. "On the walk into town you were open and friendly and-" John stopped himself before he could say handsome and funny and charming. "And the second you saw my collar that all changed."

"I'm not upset," Sherlock clarified, sniffing loudly and taking the end of the sandwich from John's hand, "I'm disappointed."

"Disappointed?" John asked, feeling a flush on his neck.

"I thought we'd be...you seemed so interesting," Sherlock said, just as flustered.

"Vicar's can't be interesting?" John asked.

Sherlock finally looked up and shrugged. "Not in my experience."

"Didn't like the last vicar?" John asked.

"He was gay," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

John swallowed and looked away. "Did that make you uncomfortable?"

"It made him uncomfortable. Guilty. His guilt was palpable," Sherlock answered softly, making a face as if he could still TASTE the man's guilt in the air.

"Did that bother you?" John asked, sounding every bit the therapist he was playing at.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

John nodded and breathed deeply, feeling that he was on the knife's edge of something. "Why do you think that is?"

"There's nothing wrong with being gay," Sherlock replied. "It's seen all across nature. When you exclude nature you can write your own rules, but the truth is, it isn't perverse. It's just as normal as anything else. Coupling is...coupling happens in many ways. And that's..."

"Natural," John supplied.

"You don't believe that," Sherlock said. 

"Why does it matter what I believe?" John asked.

"Because I don't befriend bigots," Sherlock said.

John breathed deeply again, if only to center himself, and leaned back against the tree. "Do you think I'm a bigot?"

"What does that matter? You aren't my friend," Sherlock said weakly.

"I don't think it's wrong to be gay," John said, thinking to himself how accepting he could be of others while not turning the same light on himself.

"But you think it's unnatural," Sherlock said.

John stayed silent for a long while, letting Sherlock pick at the bread and cheese, before speaking up. He knew that they were at an impasse, knew if he didn't own up right then and there he'd get nowhere.

"I don't think it's unnatural," he said. "It's...it's all fine."

Sherlock looked over at him and scrunched his nose up. When he sat up, crossing his legs and facing John for the first time that day, it was such a change that John's breath was taken away. John nodded, as if he needed to agree with himself, and Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"You're forty and unmarried," Sherlock said.

John looked down and then over to Merrick, as if the poor hound could somehow come to his defense. 

"You're someone who has seen fighting and death and saved people with your hands and you're alone and I thought...I just thought maybe you were like me," Sherlock said.

John's heart felt as if it had crashlanded in a field. He could barely breathe. Who on earth was this man? What had he done to give himself away? Was it a look? Was it the way he spoke to Sherlock? His brain was going in two different directions at once, worried about how Sherlock knew and reminding him that he wasn't gay...not really. He was...something in between.

"I thought I'd finally found someone who agreed that romantic entanglements were useless. I thought that you were above all that. You're handsome and competent and funny, so if you'd wanted a wife you would have got one by now, so," Sherlock continued, putting John's mind at ease. "So I thought maybe you detested things like lust."

"You thought that we'd get along because I was a bachelor?" John asked, feeling like he could finally move again.

"Well, yes," Sherlock said. "But then I found out you're a vicar. Vicar's aren't interesting."

John smiled at the sadness in Sherlock's eyes and nudged him with his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes shot up to his.

"Give me a chance to bugger it all up, won't you?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed and poked Merrick with his toe, the dog now asleep where he lay. "Maybe I'll forgive you for the poor life choice if you let me into the library. The idiot before you wouldn't."

John chuckled and licked his lips, feeling ravenous for the hope in Sherlock's eyes. "I suppose it's the least I can do, being the disappointment I am."

"Yes, well, I suppose we can hold off on complete condemnation for now," Sherlock said, unfolding and towering above John, holding a hand out.

John took it and let himself be pulled to his feet. As he wrapped up the food Sherlock walked back to the vicarage, Merrick suddenly awake and glued to his heel. John laughed at the traitor of an animal and let them stay ahead, walking slowly and wriggling his toes. 

"Hurry up, John," Sherlock shot over his shoulder.

John paused for a second, a gust of air pushed from his lungs at the familiar tone and use of his Christian name, and tried to tell himself he wasn't making a mistake by befriending the man.


	3. Lust

Just as they made it into the library of the vicarage, a large room that often held bible readings and where the youth group met twice monthly, the sound of thunder cracked, making John and Merrick jump slightly, and rain poured down. John was happy for staying back, as it had prevented Sherlock from seeing his reaction. It wasn't a particularly bad fright, not causing him to smell gunpowder or feel the grit of sand in between his fingers, and he was glad for that.

Sherlock walked right to the far wall and started running his fingers over the spines of the books, not even stopping to pick one out or even to read the titles, as if he needed badly to touch them. He fluttered about, seemingly forgetting to be pushy about John lagging behind, and busied himself with pulling books out at random and sliding them back in.

"Looking for any topic in particular?" John asked.

"The library in town is quite small," Sherlock said in lieu of comment. "I've read almost everything of any worth there."

"You enjoy reading?" John asked, moving forward and holding his hands behind his back to stop himself from their want to touch the man.

"I can't stop consuming knowledge. It would be foolish to become complacent," Sherlock answered, letting his eyelids flutter closed as he inhaled between the pages of a worn book.

John swallowed roughly and looked to the floor, hovering just behind him. "Complacent?" 

Sherlock pushed his shoulders back and looked suddenly much older than his years. His sureness was daunting. "If I fail to add to my wealth of knowledge, to challenge it, to push my brain in new directions, I commit a crime against myself. Knowledge, unseen-to, vanishes."

"I see," John said, moved by the words and how intent the speech had been. The unknowable Sherlock Holmes.

"Lust," Sherlock said, taking a step forward and narrowing his eyes.

He thought he saw something. He'd always been interested in the affect his apparent beauty had on people, especially those who weren't supposed to be affected by it. The last vicar had been pathetically easy to suss out, as had his first year English teacher in uni. All it ever took was a push.

He pushed John Watson and something in the man pushed back. Blasted. He'd been right on his first assessment; the man was interesting.

"I'm afraid we don't have any books on lust," the man replied, chin raised. "Quite a few passages, though."

Sherlock looked him over, tried to parse out what was keeping the man so surprising. It was as if he was rolling a particularly good sweet around on his tongue, lips pursed and mouth working slightly as he tried for a response. John, urged on by that, raised an eyebrow.

"Lust is a captivity of the reason and an enraging of the passions. It hinders business and distracts counsel. It sins against the body and weakens the soul," John recited smoothly.

"Jeremy Taylor," Sherlock replied, voice soft and eyes searching.

"Therefore tremble, O man, at any power thou hast, except thou usesest it for God," John pressed.

Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped forward, entering into John's personal space. "Art thou strong in body; who hath thy strength? God, or thy lusts?"

John smiled. "Hold not conference, debate, or reasoning with any lust; tis but a preparatory for admission of it. The way is at the very first flatly to deny it."

"William Gurnall and Thomas Fuller. You're quite well read on the topic," Sherlock said.

"I'm quite well read," John disagreed, "full stop. There has been a lot of time over the years for reading."

"Between firefights and surgeries," Sherlock said, wanting, and not knowing why, to remind John of his time in the army. 

"Yes," John said, nodding resolutely. "And late nights in my previous rectory."

"Boring," Sherlock said with little heat.

"Late nights reading?" John challenged, smirking as he knew Sherlock was putting it on for the upper hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally turned, going back to the books. The small swell of pride John felt at having won the argument felt rather good. 'At the first,' he thought, 'flatly deny it.'

_____

The rest of the afternoon was spent with less challenge and much more comfortable quiet. John read up on his next sermon and wrote his lesson plan for the bible study group later that week. The whole while Sherlock walked back and forth, picking up book after book and leaving them in a pile in the middle of the room like a strange bird.

"You're putting all those back," John said near the end of the afternoon, without looking up from his papers.

Sherlock grumbled and continued in his ways. 

John watched him covertly, or perhaps not so, when he turned, and was so involved in it that he started at his housekeeper coming into the room.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the woman tittered. "The mess you've made."

Sherlock, face blank, walked to the woman and John was confused as to what was about to happen. He smiled at the last moment and bent forward to peck her on the cheek.

"You're cleaning it up, young man," she said, voice warm, "no matter how sweet the kisses."

"As if I would use kisses to win favor," Sherlock said with mock outrage. "Mrs Hudson, you wound me."

"I've seen you use less," she said pointedly, patting him on the arm, "to gain more."

John sat startled at their little dance. It hadn't occurred to him that they would know each other, but in a small town like theirs it was inevitable. It was touching to see how sweet Sherlock was being to her, though.

"Who wants tea?" she asked.

"That would be fine," John said, sitting back in his chair.

"More than fine, I'm sure," Sherlock echoed.

Mrs H seemed to blush and left the room quickly, a bounce in her step.

"Obviously," Sherlock said before John could ask if they knew each other.

John snorted. "Do you spend a lot of time charming old women?"

"Jealous?" Sherlock asked, once again pushing, but this time less for a result.

John shut his mouth tightly and looked back to his papers, feeling Sherlock continue to watch him.

_____

Two hours later, and with the rain at full force, Sherlock finally decided it was time to take his leave.

"It's pouring out," John said, "let me call you a cab."

"Always interested to see what comes out in the rain," Sherlock replied. "I'll walk." 

Mrs Hudson came bustling out of the back with a bright yellow rain slicker and Sherlock huffed.

"If you don't stay dry you'll catch a cold," she said, unbuttoning the jacket and holding it open.

"That's not remotely true," Sherlock shot back.

"Suppresses the immune system," John said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, thoroughly charmed by the back and forth.

"Don't HELP her," Sherlock hissed.

When Mrs Hudson shook it again he gave in and slipped it on, buttoning it quickly and huffing as Mrs H did up the hood.

"There we go," she said, patting his shoulders and smiling. "Get home safe, now."

Sherlock mumbled something in passing and John and the woman watched him go through the front window.

"He's a good boy," she said. "Could do with a friend like you."

"Could do with a friend like God," John said.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Don't hold your breath."


	4. Test

Sherlock squirmed in the uncomfortable chair, just one more tactic of his brother's to keep his opponent's on edge, and waited for the man to finish his meeting in the conference room. Why he'd been called to Mycroft's office when he could have just spoken to him over dinner, he didn't know. His brother had obviously decided that something in his life wasn't acceptable but, beyond that, there had been no clues. That sort of decision came easily to someone who believed every breath Sherlock took was below his true potential. 

When Mycroft finally entered the room some fifteen minutes later Sherlock was in his chair, rocking it back and forth and sipping his best brandy.

"Pleased to see you've made yourself comfortable, I'm sure," Mycroft drawled as he entered the room.

"Why are you wasting my time?" Sherlock asked. "I have places to be."

"You mean canoodling with the new vicar in the vicarage?" Mycroft asked, snide smile pulling at his lips.

"I've never canoodled in my life," Sherlock hissed. "You are, as always, disgusting."

"I'm sorry for the misinformation. I suppose you've taken a new interest in God, then?" Mycroft pressed, knowing this would be the less acceptable accusation in Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood. "As if that would ever happen. John-the new vicar simply allowed me time in the library. Mrs Hudson said to tell you you're putting on weight."

"The library?" Mycroft asked, not taking the bait as he knew the woman had nothing to say about him. "Has the one at home lost your interest?"

Sherlock knew he'd been caught out. The library at the Holmes's was massive, and even a mind like Sherlock's was unable to devour it by age thirty-three. The truth was that he had been to the rectory to see the vicar and, more than that, he had no explanation of why. He could say that he was trying to break the man, that he'd seen the way he looked at him and decided to expose his obvious bisexuality, but even that wasn't true. He'd planned it, but given up when he realised it might hurt the man.

Taking another person's emotions into account wasn't something Sherlock avoided, per se, but it was definitely not a skill of his. Here he was, though, considerate and confused.

"I'm leaving," he said, taking the last swig of alcohol and standing to do just that.

"Don't get involved, brother dear," Mycroft said. "That course won't bring you anything but pain."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock lied, closing the door behind him with more force that was necessary.

Mycroft sat in his chair, noting that Sherlock had ruined the order of his papers, and scowled. He wouldn't let Sherlock hurt himself again. Sentiment, for him, was more damning than anything else, when directed towards something he could never have.

_____

The next morning, after rising and dressing for the day, John and Merrick made their way down the narrow stairs and were greeted by an unexpected visitor. It wasn't anyone John had met in town, and the man had definitely not been at the Sunday service. Merrick went to him and lay immediately at his feet.

"Seems my dog knows you," John said, walking into the hall and up to the front pew.

"I should hope so," the man said, patting Merrick on the head once before rising. 

When the man didn't explain himself John cleared his throat and spoke. "What can I help you with?"

"A simple concern," the man replied.

John didn't believe it for a minute.

"Is there a place we could speak in confidence?" The man asked, looking around with suspicion.

John nodded and led the way to the back room, gesturing to a seat and closing the door. When the man refused to sit John stood across from him, wishing suddenly that he'd stayed in bed a bit longer.

"I believe you've met my brother," the man said stiffly, looking around the room.

"I'm sure I've met many people's brothers. Can you be more specific?" John asked.

"He seems to have taken a liking to you," the man continued. "He doesn't do that often."

John sighed. No wonder the dog had gone to him. "Mycroft Holmes."

"It would be a bad habit to make, letting my brother take up your time," Mycroft said.

John bristled at that. This man was arrogant and John had never warmed to that personality trait. "I believe I can choose for myself how I spend my time."

"He will test your faith," Mycroft replied, finally looking John in the eye.

"My faith has been through a lot. I don't think your brother will change a thing," John answered, unsure of the truth of the statement.

"Cut this off now and save us all the trouble of finding someone to take your place," Mycroft said insistently.

John's shoulders drew back and his gaze sharpened. "Unfortunately for you, I was in the army, not the private sector. I never did learn to be frightened of the posh men with three piece suits and receding hairlines."

That seemed to hit a nerve and the man's false smile fell. "My brother is very important to me."

"That would be much more touching without the implied threats. I'm sure you can see your way out," John said, opening the door.

"My people will be in touch," Mycroft said as he left.

His people. Arrogant arse.


	5. The Vicar Thing

Cold showers only work if you also abstain from imagining the person you're attracted to being in there with you. 

It was an unfortunate fact that Sherlock Holmes had a fantastic imagination. That imagination found its way into the shower with him that morning. He'd woken from a dream, a dream he couldn't even go over in his mind without moaning aloud. He'd quickly made his way to the en suite and chucked his sleeping clothes to the floor.

The thought of John's hands on his hips made him shudder and bite his own tongue, hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick tile walls, as water so cold it burned rained down on him. Those hands. They were strong, precise. 

He could taste the copper on his tongue and took his only bit of comfort in the form of knowing his brother would already be at work, even this early, and he was free to scream as loud as he wanted. Alice never minded, her husband had been in the war.

So he screamed. He screamed his bloody head off and felt a bit of relief for it. 

He scrubbed his chest and back, and throbbing erection, with as much disinterest as he expected hospital staff would, trying not to think how that might differ if they happened to staff vicars. Once he was done getting between his toes and behind his ears he stepped from the shower and dried off, teeth chattering the whole while.

He needed to go see Lestrade. There was nothing else for it.

_____

He walked in the direction of the station with little other than John on his mind. 

He'd known the man less than a week and that was barely at all, wasn't it? He wished he had Merrick back. Merrick was good for walks like this. When Merrick was there he looked less like a fool when he spoke aloud, the dog paying close attention to his intonation and looking up at the right bits. 

"I should get a dog," he said, hating that he looked around to see if anyone was watching.

He knew Mycroft wouldn't abide it. He wasn't used to having to look after more than himself, and often did that poorly. Now, for instance, he was running on nothing but tea. The fast, even if not in name, was exactly that. The difference was that his fasts happened to be praise to something other than the Holy Father. It was much more praise to the scientific mother, the inner workings of his mind and the precise nature of his work seeming only to fuel his intent.

Dizzy as he was, his mind worked like a beacon, sending light in only one direction. That was how he liked it. When in this state, one track mind powering along pointedly, he could focus. 

Unfortunately for him, the track his eager mind was most drawn to was one he wanted to deny his interest in. It was like swinging a flashlight around an empty room. The only thing it settled on was John, and John was so real there in his mind's eye, in such contrast. He felt he could reach out and touch the man.

He shook his head and looked up, finding he'd walked all the way down the worn path and into the station without noticing the change in atmosphere. 

None of those in attendance paid him much mind. He would only bother them once he had something he wanted, they knew, and at that point it would be impossible to ignore. It would do them no good to try to speak to him until he was out of that cloud he always seemed to drag with him.

"You're all making too much noise," he complained.

At the front desk, a button was pushed. Unseen, Greg Lestrade let out a huge sigh and opened his desk drawer to the file of cold cases he used to feed Sherlock's hungry mind. It was only a few seconds later that the man in question barged through the door and sat with a huff across from him.

"Morning," Greg said, voice rough. "What has you out and about so early?"

Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms, looking very much the petulant teenager he was acting. "When, Lestrade, do I ever come for conversation?"

"Heard you met the new vicar," Greg went on, not caring what Sherlock really wanted.

"Oh, lord, have you been speaking to my brother again?" Sherlock asked, wilting a bit. "You know he sleeps in a three piece suit."

"I hardly care about his sleeping arrangements, Sherlock," Greg insisted.

"You don't have to lie to me," Sherlock said looking over his shoulder. "I won't take you in for gross indecency."

Greg's jaw clenched and he swallowed hard. Fine. Fine, Sherlock would, as bloody always, get what he wanted. Bastard.

"Cold case," he bit out, passing a file over.

"Perfect," Sherlock said, snatching it from the desk and rising quickly.

Greg knew that was the closest to a 'thank you' that he would get and went back to his work.

Sherlock walked right out the front door without even noticing the constable that held it open for him, eyes scanning the crime scene photos carefully. He let his feet take him where they would and focused on sussing out the information he knew was hidden from other's eyes.

_____

John was readying himself to tell Sherlock of his interaction with his brother, seeing him approach up the cobblestone walk, when the man broke into a run and began speaking the second he saw John.

"Good morning," Sherlock said , grinning. "Oh, John, you must come see."

John chuckled and opened the door. "Was just thinking of you."

The admission gave them both pause. Sherlock took in a rough breath and pushed past him.

"Into the library," he said. "It's important."

John followed him, hands clasped behind his back and Merrick running ahead. Sherlock fanned out some photos on the large desk and scratched behind Merrick's ear absently as he beckoned John closer. 

"Is that..." John said, left hand clenching as he petered out.

"Can you see the sutures?" Sherlock asked, picking one of the gruesome photos off the desk and holding it out. "A tear like that wouldn't happen naturally. There was already a cut in the skin. How long since surgery, would you say?"

John took the photo and held it at arm's length. 'Unwilling to admit the need for reading glasses,' Sherlock noted, 'stubborn.'

"I can't really give you an estimation without seeing the body," John said.

"Of course you can," Sherlock replied with a soft smile. "Off the record, Vicar."

John didn't know why that affected him, but it was easier to ignore the fact that it did and press on than to pick it apart.

"Several weeks," he replied, not sure why his voice was tight, "due to the healing."

"Just as I thought," Sherlock said, taking the photo back.

"If you already knew, why did you ask?" John said, feeling a flush move up his neck.

"Oh, the body, no, I didn't know that," Sherlock explained, flapping his hand dismissively. "I'm talking about your usefulness. You could have stood your ground, the photo IS hardly enough to go on, but you miss this."

John flinched and took a step back, Merrick looking up at him curiously. "Miss what?"

"Being useful," Sherlock said, smiling openly.

John shook his head. "I'm useful without looking at pictures of dead men."

Sherlock glanced over, as if trying to figure out what on earth he was talking about, and then chuckled. "Oh, you mean the vicar thing."

"Yes, the vicar thing," John said, gaze turning cold.

Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. "I just, I meant useful as a doctor. I'm sure you're, you're..."

"Yes, well, that's almost an apology," John said, snorting and relaxing his stance.

Sherlock watched him do it, completely enthralled. That was usually the point when people wrote him off; criticizing something they care greatly about. John had even looked ready to do just that. How had he changed John's mind with just a small bit of back peddling? Had his position as a vicar made him more likely to forgive, or did that just make him a good vicar?

"Do you want lunch?" John asked. "Mrs Hudson has made something up."

"Just had breakfast," Sherlock said, still watching John carefully.

"At past one?" John asked, soft smile back.

Sherlock tucked his chin, multiplying it comically, and looked around. "Past one?"

"What time did you think it was?" John asked, licking his bottom lip.

"It was just half six," Sherlock said softly.

"In the morning?" John asked, walking forward and looking into Sherlock's eyes. "Do you often lose time?"

"Frequently," Sherlock admitted, the breath being knocked out of him as John held him still and used his thumb to draw back one eyelid.

"Have they checked you for signs of seizure?" John asked, going to the other eye.

And really, what was Sherlock meant to say? That it was intentional, that it was self directed? That he'd spent years learning how to block out the world so perfectly as to forget it? With John touching him like that?

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked again.

"It's not...I'm fine," Sherlock admitted, the concern in John's voice prompting him to, even as it seemed to fill some need deep inside. "Memory technique. I often use it to pass the time. Simply forgot to check my watch."

John drew back. "What did you have for breakfast?"

"Tea," Sherlock said, swallowing and looking to the floor.

"I see. And supper last night?" John pressed.

"Same," Sherlock replied.

"Alright," John said with a sigh. "I'm feeding you up."

Sherlock stilled for a moment, and then, followed.


	6. Spring

They ended up in the fields again. John wasn't sure how that kept happening. It seemed that Sherlock just longed to be outside.

John walked behind him, a tartan blanket under one arm and a picnic basket held in the other hand. It was a wonderfully mild day, hinting towards what summer would bring in the coming months, and John closed it eyes as a breeze went by.

"Stop daydreaming," Sherlock said, "you're about to walk into a creek."

John opened his eyes quickly. He wasn't, of course. He was well off. He shot Sherlock a look and the man simply smiled wryly.

"Must you spoil all my fun?" John asked, walking the rest of the way to the edge of the water and laying out the blanket.

"Thought your job did that," Sherlock replied, pulling a worn ball from his rucksack and chucking it for Merrick to chase.

"God isn't opposed to fun," John said, patting the blanket next to him and opening the picnic basket.

"I find most fun to be sinful," Sherlock replied, sitting and taking the bottle of water out to pour some into the two glasses Mrs H had packed them.

"Maybe you're having too much of it," John teased.

"Mmm," Sherlock conceded, drinking his whole glass down and pouring another. "You may be right."

John unpacked the ham sandwiches and took his glass of water, lifting it to his lips and sipping it as he watched Merrick round back to them, ball in mouth. Sherlock pulled a piece of ham from his sandwich and traded Merrick for the ball, drawing his arm back once more and letting it go. It soared through the air and bounced twice before Merrick stopped looking at their food and went to find it.

"I hope you aren't going to eat with that hand," John said, picking up his sandwich and laying back to rest on one elbow.

"Self inoculation," Sherlock said with a wink.

John couldn't help but grin at him, even after he had shown it as bluff and wiped his hand carefully with a handkerchief.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, taking a bite and not waiting to be finished chewing before speaking, "do all vicars spend their time laying in the grass with strangers?"

"You're hardly a stranger," John said, shrugging.

"I AM strange," Sherlock replied, opening his sandwich and pulling out the lettuce before closing it again.

John shook his head. "You're pushy, if that's what you mean. Besides, everyone is strange in one way or another."

Sherlock held the lettuce out at precisely the time that Merrick made it back. The dog dropped the ball and ate the lettuce, mouth open a bit as he chewed and a look on his face like he hadn't noticed it was much less like ham than the first bit.

"And how are you strange?" Sherlock asked, reaching down to pull at the laces of his shoes.

"Can't you tell?" John teased.

When Sherlock looked back up at him, his eyes taking on that peculiar sharpness, he regretted it.

"What is it like to kill a man?" Sherlock asked calmly, as though it weren't a horrible question to ask.

John swallowed and picked up his water, drinking to pass some time.

"Was that an awful thing to ask?" Sherlock whispered, looking confused.

"Sort of," John replied.

That gave Sherlock pause, but not much of it. "I've only investigated the after affects, you see. I know what makes bad men kill, I know how they must feel, I think. What I don't know..."

"Yes?" John asked, feeling the hairs raise on the back of his neck.

"What makes good ones kill?"

John cleared his throat and sat up. "A myriad of things. Queen. Country. War."

"What about you?" Sherlock asked softly.

"What makes you think I'm a good man?" John asked, not feeling it so much as his mind went back to the war.

"You're a healer," Sherlock explained. "First the body, and now, the soul."

John looked down at his sandwich and swallowed roughly.

"I've ruined our picnic. I told you I was strange," Sherlock said, taking in a shaky breath.

"I never saw wickedness," John said in lieu of answer. "I know many did, but not me. Saw a lot of blood. Saw fighting. That's how...that's what I killed for. It was kill or be killed. I only ever killed to stop death."

"Does it haunt you?" Sherlock asked, and then, "it haunts Mycroft. He has nightmares. One time I woke him and...and"

Sherlock's face paled and he looked down, barely noticing when Merrick made his way over.

"It haunts us all, I think, in its way," John answered. "Those who fought, and those who stayed behind."

Sherlock nodded slowly and glanced up. "See? I knew you were a good man."

John felt himself blush and took over the task of throwing the ball for Merrick, letting Sherlock lay and stare at the sky as he pondered whatever was troubling him. 

He wondered if Sherlock's preoccupation with crimes had something to do with his troubled mind. Wondered if solving them made it easier to sleep at night. John still hadn't found a salve for that specific wound himself, besides alcohol, of course. Alcohol made everything easier for a time.

After a long while Sherlock took a deep breath and sat up, finishing his sandwich quickly and removing both shoes and socks. John watched as he rolled up his trousers and stood.

"You aren't going in there," John said, smiling and shaking his head.

"And why not?" Sherlock asked, patting a kipping Merrick on his walk to the water's edge.

"It's probably freezing," John replied.

"If I get pneumonia," Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows and walking backwards, "will you care for me, or pray for me?"

John laughed, not sure how he had come to meet someone so unafraid. It somehow made him less afraid, and wasn't that bizarre? He found himself, surprisingly, telling the truth.

"I already pray for you," he said, his voice less sure than he wished.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smiled before hopping into the water and bending over to look around. John swallowed down on the tightness in his throat and laughed at the look on the man's face. His laughter died as Merrick woke and dashed in after Sherlock.

"Merrick, no!" he shouted, getting to his feet and trying to catch the dog.

Merrick jumped in and shook, spraying Sherlock with water and making John groan.

"Oh, come now, John," Sherlock said, grinning and wiping off his face. "I thought you said you were allowed fun."

John protested weakly. "This isn't fun. This is lunacy."

"Are you frightened of water?" Sherlock asked, splashing a bit again.

"Of course not," John said, sighing and grinning at the man.

"It feels quite refreshing," Sherlock said, taking a stick and poking it into the reeds near the edge of the water.

"I'm not a fool," John said, standing on the edge of the blanket.

Sherlock caught his eye and shrugged. "Will you play one for me? Just for a bit?"

"Sherlock," John said, feeling something pull tight in his chest. 

"Do it for science," Sherlock insisted, pulling the stick from the water, "your long lost love."

John huffed and leaned down to unlace his shoes, pulling his feet free of them and his socks and walking to the water's edge. "If I ruin my trousers I'll get a walloping from Mrs H."

"Roll them up and get in," Sherlock said. "There's plenty of new life just here. Tadpoles and water-skippers and fish eggs."

John rolled his trouser legs up and tiptoed in. The water wasn't as cold as he'd feared, and Sherlock was right. Just steps from dry earth the water was teeming with life. He watched as Sherlock ran the stick slowly through the reeds and tadpoles and insects alike moved around it. 

He had the sudden overwhelming sensation of nostalgia, his throat closing up and tears coming to his eyes as he remembered so many afternoons spent just like this one in his childhood. It was hardly a sad feeling, but the intensity of it was too much. The wanting. God's majesty spread out in front of him and he wanted so much he was afraid he might choke.

"Spring is a rebirth," Sherlock said, voice soft. 

They stood like that, silent and content to watch the world around them sway in the breeze, for a very, very long while.


	7. Vice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll probably be punished hard for living." -Tupac Shakur

By the time they made it back to the vicarage, it was seven o'clock and Mrs Hudson was wringing her hands. She bustled out to the front hall as Merrick made it up the path, and wiped her hands nervously on her apron.

"I should paddle you two for worrying me so much!" she harped, not truly as angry as her words said. She had to admit secretly that she liked the quickly budding friendship between the two men. They both had trouble with self loathing and she knew they could use some kindness.

"We were only at the river," John said, hauling in the picnic basket and sandy blanket.

Sherlock pushed past him, eyes far off as he picked apart a seed pod, and John couldn't help watching him go, sleeves and pant legs both rolled up and shoes tied to his hip belt loop. He looked the perfect picture of schoolboy innocence.

"Only at the river," Mrs Hudson said to herself as she went to start tea, "for five hours."

John didn't catch it and instead went about putting away the blanket and picnic basket and bringing the remnants of their lunch to the kitchen.

"You two settle in and I'll bring supper to the library. That boy won't be able to pull his nose out of a book long enough to make something for himself," Mrs Hudson said as she set up a platter.

"You're wonderful," John said, smiling at her and turning to leave.

He did find Sherlock in the library, the end of the seed pod dissected on the large table and forgot completely. The man was already opening several texts and sitting back in the chair John considered his.

"Sit on the sofa," Sherlock said without looking up. "This chair is a menace to your shoulder."

John sighed fondly and went to the desk. "Actually, I have to write up the lesson plan for this week's after school work. I've got six bored teenagers coming in tomorrow and the next day."

Sherlock looked up at that, remembering what it was like to be a bored teenager. "And what topics are you going to write on?"

"How to avoid vices," John said, pulling the typewriter closer to himself and getting out a fresh piece of paper.

"In order to know virtue, we must acquaint ourselves with vice. Only then can we know the true measure of a man," Sherlock replied, eyebrow raised.

"I'd rather not give advice supplied by the Marquis de Sade to a bunch of teenagers, thank you very much," John replied, readying the typewriter and smiling softly across the room at Sherlock.

"So, I'm to believe you never had any vices?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him. Pushy. Pushy and eager to truly know someone. It was something he feared he should discourage in the man, but found he couldn't. "On the contrary, I came back to God after living a life of vice. I'm not stupid, you know, it occurs to me that they will possibly engage in whatever I warn against. I simply believe, unlike others, that they should know the consequence before experiencing it, though sometimes that does nothing to deter the act that brings it."

"You changed the subject quite quickly," Sherlock remarked. "Afraid to speak your own vices aloud?"

John thought on that for a moment and sat back, crossing his arms. "My vices now include drinking a bit more than I know I should, and the constant questioning I indulge in. What vices are you willing to admit?"

"You mean, confess?" Sherlock challenged.

"In less rigid terms, perhaps," John conceded, "but yes."

"Rebellion," Sherlock said, his shoulders pushed back and head held high. 

"And how do you suppose you rebel?" John asked. He really did want to know. He wanted to know everything of the man, and that frightened him enough. Hungry, he admitted only to himself, for that knowledge. It was what he sought absolution for, each night while on his knees before his bed.

"My approach to life is rebellion," Sherlock explained. "My acceptance of the cruelty of life. My unwillingness to turn away from it. My need to bring it to light."

"Originality is independence, not rebellion; it is sincerity, not antagonism. Or so said George Henry Lewis," John replied, eyes soft. That Sherlock could make himself into a villain so easily was tragic.

"I rebel against the word of God," Sherlock challenged.

"Do you really believe that?" John asked.

Sherlock grimaced and looked to the floor.

"I think you rebel in the presence of God. That rebellion is less damnable than you think," John said. "Questioning God can sometimes lead you back to Him."

"And you've questioned him?" Sherlock asked, voice softer now.

"All men do," John admitted. "As I've said, I haven't always been a holy man."

Mrs Hudson came in with the tea and food just then and went about starting a fire in the hearth. "Keep those shoes off my upholstery, Sherlock dear."

Sherlock untied his shoes from his hip and dropped them to the floor with a clunk, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. John wondered if they would take the conversation back up once the woman was gone, or if that moment of honesty was lost to them completely. 

He stood and poured himself and Sherlock tea. "Sugar and milk?"

"Sugar," Sherlock replied, chin resting on his knees.

When Mrs Hudson finally got the fire going properly and laid a kiss on Sherlock's head, she left the room. John swallowed and sat back in his chair, tea still too hot to drink.

"What do you reckon had been your worst sin?" Sherlock asked, voice slightly muffled as he tucked his face behind his knees.

John's mind screamed, careening around a corner towards what he knew it was. His worst sin was, beyond any doubt, the summer he spent right before the war. 

He'd fallen in love with his best friend. His best male friend. Nothing had truly happened, the worst of it being hands held in the grass near his home. He could still smell Felix's skin, still remember touching his inner wrist and the pads of his fingers. Could imagine what it would have been like to kiss him there, crickets speaking up as the sun finally set and they lay there in the deepening dark, tasting his lips.

The guilt bubbled up in him.

"Not knowing when to say no," he answered.

Sherlock remained silent and John looked up at him. He looked pained, as if he knew exactly what John was speaking of. John wanted to pull him into his arms and tell him everything was going to be alright, that no matter what, God loved him. That he was loved.

"You don't have to tell me yours," he said, voice low and edging towards soothing.

"But what if I wanted to tell you? What if I wanted to tell you it all?" Sherlock asked, jaw clenching. 

John's mouth opened but nothing came out. Sherlock stood and started to put on his shoes and John found himself standing as well.

"You don't have to leave," he said.

"That's where you're wrong," Sherlock replied. "Thank you for the afternoon."

Merrick followed them to the door, nudging Sherlock's ankle until he bent to bid the dog farewell.

"You can tell me anything," John said as he opened the door, the sound of nature's evening activity pulling him out along with Sherlock to stand awkwardly on the front porch.

Sherlock looked at him, his face not really cold, but unyielding. "I hope your lesson goes well."

John nodded slowly and watched him walk away, wondering what he could have said to make him stay, and alternately, how bad an idea that might have been.


	8. I Ain't Got Nobody

Sherlock didn't get far. He had planned to walk home and instead found himself still on the property even after the stars had come out and the lights were beginning to go out in the vicarage. He sat under the large tree at the edge of the property and watched as the downstairs lights were turned off and one went on upstairs. 

John's bedroom. It had to be.

Surely enough, John's silhouette could be seen in the window as he moved about his room. Sherlock clenched his jaw and stood, walking quickly through the tall grass to the house and standing below the window, not sure what to do. 

He decided on sitting with his back pressed to the house, legs crossed and hands on his knees. He'd been thinking for a few hours on what John had said. 'Not knowing when to say no,' could refer to anything. He felt that maybe he was losing his mind because, and of course this was beyond premature, he thought he'd picked something up. Something...he wasn't sure. 

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He was sure that what John was referring to was illicit love between two men. Whether that was based on anything John had given away or pure unadulterated hope, Sherlock couldn't be certain.

That was what had him unable to leave; the uncertainty. It was uncomfortable for someone so intent on knowing things, on picking things apart and finding the truth, to be left uncertain. It was the main reason he detested interpersonal relationships; the fickleness of human interaction. There was so much that could be misinterpreted.

His brain came to a stop and his body seized as the window above him was opened. He felt as if his heart would hammer out of his chest as he looked up and saw John's hand on the window, fingers then curling tightly around the frame as he breathed in the evening air. The fingers left and Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of a match being struck.

Above him, John sat in the wooden chair by the window and lit a cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs and letting his eyes fall closed. He let the smoke out as he started to unbutton his shirt. His shoulder ached. It had been doing that a lot, as of late. He figured that was probably due to the changing barometric pressure, but it felt even more like a reminder that the direction his heart was taking wasn't one that would lead anywhere good.

He took another drag and reached over to his pile of records, pulling out the new Gloria Dee and slipping it from its sleeve. It was still a perfect, glossy black, only played once, and he moved it carefully to the player. The soft snick of the needle being placed was followed by static and then, finally, music.

He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and slumped back in his seat as the song pulled at him.

"There's been a sayin' goin' round," the singer crooned, "and I begin to think it's true."

Below the window Sherlock sat stock still. Once again the man had surprised him. A jazz loving vicar. Who would have thought? He relaxed a bit and closed his eyes, head bobbing to the music.

John set his cigarette down and slowly removed his shirt, walking to the loo to get the balm he needed for his shoulder, and dropped it in the basket on the way. When he returned to his place near the window he took the cigarette back between his lips and rubbed the salve into his aching muscles. 

He wondered if Sherlock was in bed yet, if the man even slept, and sighed. Wondering about Sherlock would do him no good.

He hummed along with the music and dug his thumbs in, groaning as they pulled at the muscles. It hurt, but it wouldn't for long. He had to think of life that way, sometimes. Had to get through it one day at a time.

He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and poured himself a whiskey. Whiskey always helped. He took the first swig and softly sang along to the music. 

"I ain't got nobody, and nobody cares for me."

Sherlock bit his lip and stood, gathering his wits and rucksack, and started the long walk home.

_____

"Evening," Mycroft said as Sherlock entered the Holmes mansion.

Sherlock grunted and set his things down, joining his brother on the plush sofa to be close to the fire.

"Drink?" Mycroft asked, already pouring Sherlock a glass of brandy.

Sherlock took it and pulled on it slowly, letting the alcohol burn on its way down his throat.

Mycroft watched him carefully, noting the sunburned skin on the tips of his ears and the fact that his trouser legs were still rolled up. "Have an eventful day?"

"Do you ever..." Sherlock asked, voice unsure, "do you ever feel lonely?"

"No," Mycroft lied resolutely.

"I can't tell if that's what it is," Sherlock explained, draining his drink and unlacing his shoes.

"You've never wanted friends before," Mycroft said, taking Sherlock's empty glass off the crushed velvet of the sofa and wondering if he needed to ply his brother with more alcohol to get to the bottom of his troubles that evening. "What is it about this vicar that has you out of sorts?"

"He fought, you know," Sherlock said in lieu of reply. "He was an army doctor. Perhaps you can speak to him about-"

"Why are YOU speaking to him, Sherlock? He's hardly brilliant," Mycroft interrupted. "How is it that he hasn't bored you yet?"

Sherlock shrugged and wriggled his toes against the carpet. "He's not brilliant, no, but he's...I don't know, intricate? Can people be intricate? Like puzzles?"

"I suppose they can be," Mycroft conceded, thinking of the detective inspector, "for a while. Do you talk with him about God?"

"Somewhat inevitable," Sherlock sighed. "Do you talk with anyone about anything?"

"I talk with you," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow at the challenge.

Sherlock watched him for a long while before coming to some conclusion and nodding. Mycroft watched him head towards his bedroom and clenched his jaw. This vicar was more trouble, it seemed, than he'd originally thought.


	9. Stand-in For The Coroner

It was a dream. John recognised it straight away. The world was pulling tight at the corners and his feet barely moved as he walked. 

Summer.

The air was thick as he found his way to the small thatch of trees, their branches heavy-laden with leaves. He sat beneath them and pulled off his shoes, watching them fall to the ground slowly.

He dug his toes into the grass, wriggling them and closing his eyes at the sweet coolness of it. He felt as though he could breathe in forever without reaching his fill of the sweet air, humid even in the shade.

He stretched out and lay down, his head resting in someone's lap.

Rough fingers threaded through his hair and he sighed deeply at the pull of them. The fingers massaged his scalp and he breathed deeply through parted lips.

"What if I wanted to tell you it all?" the voice above him whispered.

Before he could respond the dream was slipping away, the sound of the vicarage phone ringing and pulling him from sleep. He clenched his eyes closed and focused on the feel of those fingers, those long, deft, fingers.

"The phone is for you," Mrs Hudson said from the doorway, snapping John from the last few bonds of sleep.

He cleared his throat and sat up, opening his eyes and swallowing thickly. Merrick stirred beside him but kept his eyes closed. Mrs Hudson walked in and took the half empty bottle of whiskey from his bedside table under her arm and squeezed his shoulder.

"It's the detective inspector," she explained.

John grunted at that, sliding out of bed and smoothing down the back of his hair as he followed her out to the landing and down the stairs. The phone was off the hook, receiver resting on the ledge, and John cleared his throat once more before taking it.

"Vicar Watson," he said, peeking around the corner to find the time, the clock showing half five in the morning.

"Watson," Greg replied. "Found ourselves in a bit of a bind. The coroner is off with their dying mother and we've recently lost our local GP."

"Is someone sick?" John asked, noting to himself that it was wishful thinking if their first course of action was to ring the coroner.

"Dead," Greg replied. "I know it's a leap, but we need your eye. Wouldn't have called if it-"

Greg's voice cut out and John could hear him arguing softly, his hand obviously over the receiver and muffling the words. The hand was dropped and Greg sighed.

"John?" came the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes.

"Y-yes?" John asked, mouth suddenly dry.

"I've told them what it is but they won't believe me," Sherlock explained.

John heard more disagreement from the background and now Sherlock sighed.

"Where are you?" John asked.

"I knew you'd come," Sherlock replied softly, smile evident.

"Where are you?" John repeated.

"Down by the old mill. I've sent a cab. Should be there soon," Sherlock answered. "And, John?"

John shifted where he stood, unraveled by the softness in Sherlock's voice. "Yes?" 

There was a pause, and intake of breath, and then, murmured, "nothing."

_____

John dressed quickly, wearing a coat over his vicar's clothes to fight the cold and damp, and used some pomade to tame his hair. Mrs Hudson had toast with jam, coffee and ham made up for him when he once again descended the stairs, which he ate quickly and without sitting.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Mrs H asked.

He hummed in agreement and wiped his mouth just as the approach of a car sounded outside. Merrick ran to the door and barked once before sitting.

"I'll be back soon, hopefully," he said as he pet the dog and walked out the front door into the early morning, the sun hinting at rising, but not much more.

He slid into the back of the waiting cab and looked out the window as they pulled away. He hoped the coffee would start working, as he still felt quite tired. 

"How long is our trip?" John asked the driver.

"Only ten minutes, vicar," came the reply.

John nodded and threaded his fingers together in his lap.

It had been four days and he'd not seen hide nor hair of Sherlock, and he'd wondered in that time if he'd put the man off. That worry shouldn't have taken up as much time as it had, and he definitely shouldn't have been so focused on befriending the man.

He'd taught three lessons and had multiple individual meetings with people from his congregation during those four days, but his mood still seemed to hinge on whether or not he spoke with Sherlock.

Even if the coffee didn't do its job, he thought, he'd be awake and ready to go soon enough just by Sherlock's presence. 

He kept his eyes on the back of the seat in front of him for the rest of the ride, his mind flitting between the secrets his congregation had already entrusted him with and the ones Sherlock had seemed so close to admitting.

_____

John could see the police milling about as soon as they were coming up on the street. They had an area cordoned off and were standing at the edge of it speaking together as Sherlock paced back and forth just inside it. Sherlock looked tense. John figured he'd never seen him in work mode before and realised he may not have been meeting up with the man he thought he knew.

The driver let him know the fee had been payed and John slipped out as soon at the cab came to a stop, shutting the door and making his way quickly to Greg. Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he explained a bit of the case. Man gone missing five days prior. Found here. Expired. No known reason.

"You know I'm not a medical examiner," John said, unable to look from Sherlock's agitated form.

"Well, we have an idea. He has an idea," Greg replied in a stage whisper, nodding towards Sherlock. "We just need someone with a medical background for a yay or nay."

"You mean...he's solved it?" John asked, small smile pushing its way onto his lips.

"I told you he was brilliant," Greg conceded. "He's been looking for the man nonstop for days now. Don't even know if he's slept."

John looked at Sherlock with a more calculating gaze and noticed how stilted his motions were. Sleep deprivation was just as bad as drunkenness. His faith in Sherlock dropped a bit and he wondered if he'd find that he was wrong about the dead man.

At that, as if smelling the questioning look on the breeze, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder from where he was now knelt next to the body. His eyes caught John's and he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.

"Go ahead," Greg said from John's side.

John made his way through the tall grass to where Sherlock and the body seemed to be nearly conversing. Sherlock let go of the man's hand and stood, eyes flitting over John's shoulder to the policemen, and then back to John's eyes.

"What have they told you?" he asked quietly.

"That you haven't slept in days," John admitted. 

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "Sleep is boring."

"Sleep is necessary," John replied.

"Tell me what you see," Sherlock said, pointing to the body, "and I'll tell you what you miss."

And, yes, this was a different man than John knew. Still, though, beneath the bravado was a bit of the teasing John remembered. John nodded and knelt, fingers going to pull eyelids back.

Sherlock watched John look over the body and was surprised when his mind prompted him to smell the soft bit of skin that could be seen just above the man's collar. 'Smell it. Just...press your mouth there. To the shell of his ear, just behind it. The hollow of his neck.'

He shook his head and clenched his hands. Not. Not. Not. Now.

John was up on his feet again and was speaking to him and Sherlock's eyes wouldn't leave his lips.

Not.  
Not.  
Not. Now.

"That and the smell of alcohol," John continued, "and I'm guessing he choked on his own vomit."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock said smoothly.

John nodded.

"Except for the issue of the wife," Sherlock added.

John seemed to deflate a bit. "The wife?"

Sherlock went on to explain so much more than Greg did that John wondered how they could have ever doubted him. He'd meant to tell Sherlock that he should explain all of it to Greg. That, of course, wasn't what he said.

"Brilliant," is what came out in a near gasp.

Sherlock paused, looking over his shoulder, before standing a bit taller. "Well, yes. I-I've been working the case thoroughly."

John bit the tip of his tongue and nodded, looking down at the ground. "Are you tired?"

"Not in the least," Sherlock said.

"Will you came back with me," John asked, "after this? Get a proper meal?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright, let's tell them, then," John said, smiling softly, "shall we?"


	10. A Bit Of Battlefield

They ended up riding back to the police station in a cab, as Sherlock insisted they didn't take up Greg's offer of the back of his police car. John was buzzing with something akin to excitement, even though the case was all wrapped up other than paperwork, and Sherlock was telling him more about his past few days sniffing out the murder.

"At first I thought it was for financial reasons," Sherlock explained, stretching and rubbing at his eyes with loose fists. "When it turned out that the wife was the one with the money I had to look for a different motive."

"And what was it, in the end?" John asked, leg bouncing.

Sherlock looked over at him, smiling softly. "That's why I had them call you."

John looked a bit confused at that. "I thought they said they wouldn't close the case without the opinion of a medical man."

"They always say that," Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. "Truth is, they listen to me well enough when they don't have any other choice. I needed you there. I needed you to see the body and hear the story and tell me why on earth the man was killed."

"What makes you think I'll know?" John asked nervously.

"You're the vicar," Sherlock said, and then when there was no light of recognition in John's eyes, "if anyone understands motive, it's you. What else is confession if not a study in that?"

John's eyebrows pulled together and he nodded slowly. "The human aspect."

"Quite right," Sherlock agreed. "Why would a wife kill a husband, if not for money?"

"Greed aside," John said, "there's lust. Any signs of adultery?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open. "The wedding band!"

"Why would a man wear a wedding band?" John asked, trying to remember if he saw one at all.

"No, the other day when I interviewed the wife. She wasn't wearing it when I knocked on the door. It was on when she returned from the kitchen. I had assumed she had it off while cooking but...we have to turn around," Sherlock blurted, giving the driver a different address and grinning, suddenly back to full attention. "John, you're a gift."

John felt himself blush and sputtered. "We can't go interview the suspect before the police. Detective Inspector Lestrade told us he wouldn't even think about pressing charges until you explained yourself fully."

"Come now, John," Sherlock said, settling back into the seat and crossing his arms behind his head, something that drew his shirt tight across his breast and did something peculiar to John's breathing, "I've already done that. If I'm to face censure for it, I might as well have a definitive reason for doing it in the first place."

John huffed out a humorless sort of laugh and shook his head. "So we wake up a possibly grieving widow at seven in the morning on a hunch?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It's this or paperwork. How fast did you hop at the chance to see a case first hand?" Sherlock asked knowingly.

"Can't hop that early in the morning," John replied sardonically, "not at my age."

Sherlock burst into peals of laughter and John felt he'd never heard anything so glorious. He looked away when the driver caught his eye, looking at him through the rearview mirror, suddenly feeling as if he'd rather shown his hand.

Soon enough they pulled into a long driveway and up to a silent, but somewhat lit, house. There were servants visible through the lit windows on the ground floor and John's eyes were drawn to them as Sherlock hastily paid the fee and hoped from the cab. John nodded at the driver and followed as quickly as he could, the gravel crunching under his feet seeming frightfully loud. 

Sherlock once again looked much older than John had once believed him to be, and, indeed, older than his thirty-some years should allow. John wondered if it was to do with the coat. Double breasted and dark charcoal, the thing was a behemoth. It made him look much larger and more imposing than he was while in trousers and shirt alone. (Impossibly more when compared to wet-footed and sunburned, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.) The coat, it seemed, made the man.

John stood just a step behind him while the man knocked at the door and spoke quickly to one of the maids. He was succinct and authoritative and John started to wonder if the lack of sleep just made him sharper. It must have been the adrenalin.

A few minutes later the mistress of the house appeared. She had dressed and fixed her hair a bit, but it was obvious she'd been sleeping. Sleeping without her wedding ring.

"Mr Holmes," she said, surprised. "You...you have news?"

"We believe your husband has been caught up with smugglers dealing in face jewels. Would it be possible for myself and my colleague to inspect your wedding band and any diamond earrings you have?" Sherlock asked.

It was genius. The woman knew that her husband hadn't been caught up in any such thing. By going along with it she surely saw it as throwing suspicion onto a gang of thieves. She schooled her face into a different form of shock, this one false, and nodded.

"Have a seat in the drawing room," she said. "I'll be just a moment."

Sherlock walked with John into the sitting room and accepted tea from one of the servants. They sat on a small sofa, pressed close. John was taken aback by how this version of Sherlock even SAT differently. He was aristocratic, even in the delicacy with which he picked up his cup.

As soon as the woman was gone with the tray John leaned in and whispered. "Isn't this illegal? Procuring evidence under false pretenses?"

"Oh, quite illegal," Sherlock whispered, eyes wide, "for a policeman. I'm a civilian, though. She has no assurance of honesty from me. I use that to my advantage."

John stared at Sherlock.

"Don't look so shocked," Sherlock dismissed. "You must have known the way I would present myself once we got here."

"Just didn't realize how believable you'd be," John said, wondering if he should look down on this behavior. 

Sherlock nodded in the direction of the door just as the wife walked in with a jewelry box. This time she didn't even try to pretend that she was still wearing her wedding ring.

John watched as Sherlock took out a small looking glass and inspected first a pair of earrings. The woman sat across from them and watched him intently.

"When did you last receive jewelry from your husband?" Sherlock asked, as he went onto the next pair of earrings.

"Oh," the woman replied, looking to the ceiling, "years ago."

"Not a single gift of jewelry in years," Sherlock said. "Not a very good husband, it sounds."

John looked over at him, trying to suss out what he was doing.

"I beg your pardon?" the woman said sharply.

"Well, I've had the chance to look into his financials," Sherlock said, whether a bluff or not, John didn't know, "and he's purchased jewelry as recently as last month. Makes me wonder who he was giving it to."

The woman's eyes grew wide and she turned to glare at the maid in the doorway. "You!"

John was up in seconds and holding her back from clawing the maid's face off. Sherlock inspected the wedding ring while she screamed.

The woman thrashed in John's arms and pointed an accusing finger. "You hear that, you wretch? The jewelry he gave you was paste! You meant nothing to him! I should have killed you the same way I killed him!" 

John looked over at Sherlock and the man barely even reacted, simply standing and sticking his hands in his pockets. Just as he did, Greg and another fellow from the police burst into the house.

It was a whirlwind as they took the wife into custody and started with statements from the staff, but the gist of it seemed to be that, once they hadn't arrived at the station, Greg knew where they would be. He seemed less angry than thoroughly exhausted and John was more than happy to quietly take his leave and wait outside while Sherlock spoke him.

Twenty minutes after their arrival, they were back in a cab and heading to the vicarage. The second they were out of sight of the newly arriving police John burst out laughing. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously.

"Did you really look into his accounts?" John asked. "Or was that just one more brilliant bluff?"

"I looked into them," Sherlock said, shrugging, "incredibly boring. The man barely spent a thing on his lover. Who knows if it was really the maid."

John laughed again, a harsh bark of a thing, and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, eyes brimming with humor and adoration. "Remind me never to cross you, you genius bastard."

Sherlock started to giggle at that, face finally showing a bit more humanity. "You're speaking like an army man, vicar."

John shook his head and then shrugged himself as he reluctantly let his hand fall from Sherlock's shoulder to the seat between them. "I suppose I'm a bit nostalgic."

"No need for that," Sherlock said. "I can always find you a bit of battlefield."

John snorted and licked his lips and wondered, not for the first time, who this man even was.


	11. Warm

Mrs Hudson made them a large lunch and they ate in silence, Sherlock feeding an ecstatic Merrick below the table but consuming much more than John had ever seen him eat. John watching as exhaustion finally overtook Sherlock's body. The man was asleep within the hour, laid out on the sofa and covered in a blanket. 

John sat across the room, trading time between watching him snore softly and twitch in his sleep, and worked on his next sermon. With the windows open and a light breeze, it was the perfect spring afternoon. The thought definitely passed through his mind that he could spend every afternoon of his life like that and never tire of it.

Amazingly enough, Sherlock slept long into the day, only waking around five to stretch and work his jaw as if his mouth tasted awful. It probably did.

"I'm hungry," he grumbled, rolling over and flushing when he saw where he was.

"Not surprised," John offered, "Lestrade mentioned that you don't eat on a case. You're really pushing the human body's boundaries. I should remind you of what happens to the malnourished mind."

Sherlock groaned and reached over to scratch what he could reach of Merrick. "Must you be so educatory?"

John snorted and grinned at him. "Tea?"

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed.

John nodded and set the book he'd been reading aside, standing and walking into the kitchen. Mrs Hudson was in town doing the shopping so he was left to his own devices. It took him a while to find the tea and he realised he'd been taking advantage somewhat. He cleared his throat at the thought and went about heating the water.

He hated to think of himself as lazy, the army pushing him to be as self sufficient as possible, but he'd become as much in the last few years. Perhaps it was seeing the man dead that morning that made him want to take up running again, something about facing his own mortality reminding him that he wasn't actually dead yet. 

"Do you box?" Sherlock asked, seemingly managing to read John's mind a bit.

"Used to," John replied, turning. "You?"

Sherlock stretched and walked closer. "Often. Just figured a man of action like yourself might be up for a bit of exertion."

John held in the smile pulling at his lips. "Man of action?"

"Lapsed, perhaps, yet..." Sherlock pressed. "Tomorrow? The local school has a rather good gymnasium."

John chewed his lip and nodded. "Yes. That would...that would be fine."

Sherlock went to the ice chest without another word and started foraging for food. He came out with four eggs, the end of the ham, and a large block of cheese. 

Soon enough he was sat with a large plate of food, eating ravenously and John was across from him sipping his tea. They were startled out of their calm by the vicarage phone ringing loudly from the hallway. John hopped up and went to answer it.

"Vicar Watson," he said, looking back around the corner as if he shouldn't take his eyes off Sherlock, lest he disappear.

"It's Lestrade," came a gravelly voice from the receiver. "You up for a pint in about an hour?"

John thought back to the undignified amount of alcohol he'd drank the night before and paused.

"Had a hell of a day, is all," Greg continued.

Something in his voice pulled at John. He wasn't one to leave a comrade bereft. "Course. Yeah, see you in an hour. Same place?"

"Yeah," Greg replied. "See you soon."

John rang off and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was bringing his plate to the sink, Merrick glued to his ankle and whining for one last bit of egg.

"It's all gone, you poor mutt. Looks like no one loves you," Sherlock teased, before giving in and setting his plate gingerly on the floor for the dog to lick.

"I've just been phoned by Lestrade," John said, hands slipping into his pockets. "I'm going for a pint in a bit. Do you have plans?"

"I do if you'll let me stay behind and read," Sherlock replied. 

John cocked an eyebrow. "And you won't be leaving books all about, now, will you?"

Mrs Hudson opened the front door and Sherlock rolled his eyes at John before moving to help her with bags. "You're just as bad at her."

"At making you act a responsible adult?" John teased.

"Yes, yes, go have a drink and speak about me behind my back," Sherlock shot back with little heat.

John joined them in the entryway and helped with the food, taking a bag and kissing Mrs H on the cheek. "Thank you, my dear."

"I got more eggs," she cooed in response. "Sherlock will have eaten the remainder of them while I was gone."

John chuckled, Sherlock simply shrugging and heading to the library.

"He did, didn't he?" Mrs Hudson asked once he was gone, and upon seeing John's nod, "he always was such a hungry boy. Just like his brother. That was, of course, before he decided eating was only for us mere humans."

"I don't think I ever learned exactly how you know Sherlock. Sounds a bit more than left over neighbourly affection," John said, leaning against the cooktop.

"Did I never tell you?" she chirped. "Their mother was a good friend of mine, rest her soul. I've known Sherlock since he was in nappies."

John couldn't help his curiosity. "What was he like as a child?"

"Messy," she said with a warm smile, tapping John on the nose, "but fairly the same. Just a sweet boy with no one to be sweet to."

John thought he saw something in her eyes at the last bit, something he couldn't quite parse, but didn't speak on it. "I'm going to go meet D.I. Lestrade for a pint. I know you've just been, but do you need anything from town."

"Not a thing, dear," she replied softly as she went about making a new pot of tea.

John nodded and went to watch Sherlock from the hall. A sweet boy, she'd said. John thought that, yes, he was sweet, in his way. Sweet in the fields, soft as he lay looking at the sky, gentle in the way he spoke about the natural world. And yes, he admitted to himself, he could use a pint, because he was falling in love with him. Damn.

_____

Greg was waiting for him when he got to the Fox and Hound, pint already half drained even though John was early. John sat across from him and held his hand up to the barmaid.

"Good to see you're still in one piece," John said.

"Mostly," Greg replied. "Don't mention the paperwork when you're in the academy. Reckon some of us would've given up."

"Like you?" John asked, already knowing the answer. No one was more copper than Lestrade.

"Cor, no. Just woulda liked to have gone into this with my eyes open," Greg explained, holding his pint up as John received his.

"What are we toasting to?" John asked.

"Being miserable?" Greg asked.

"Worn down and tired?" John added.

Greg clicked his glass to John's with gusto and drank the dregs down with a wince. After signaling to the barmaid that he needed another, he looked over to John. "You gonna come on every case now?"

John huffed out a laugh. "You're the one that called me."

"You're just as bad as him. Couple of adrenalin chasers. Shoulda realised you two would be trouble together," Greg replied with a soft smile, it brightening his tired face.

"He's...something else," John replied.

"You've got that right," Greg laughed.

John cleared his throat and looked down into his pint.

"Are you going to let me set you up with one of the birds at work?" Greg asked.

"Listen, I told you-" John started, his irritation showing.

"It's just," Greg interrupted, "you've lost your dog."

John looked down at his side, somehow just then noticing that Merrick had stayed behind with Sherlock. "Yes, well, when there's a choice between me and the madman, he doesn't pick me."

"He's with Sherlock?" Greg asked, looking a bit confused. 

"Sherlock is back at the vicarage. In the library," John explained.

"Better than down at the station," Greg replied. "So...you two are getting fairly close."

"He needs guidance," John said, taking a long pull of his drink and already wanting another.

"God's guidance, or yours?" Greg asked.

"I'd like to think those are the same," John said, a bit affronted.

Greg nodded. "Of course. And how is the vicarage treating you?"

"Fine, yeah," John said, still a little off kilter. "Settling in."

Greg nodded again, seeing that John was done taking about his life. "Enough talking shop. I think I've got something that'll make you happy. My sister got a few tickets for a jazz club in London. My missus won't let me go, what with the baby just around the corner. I gave them your name. This Friday night."

John huffed a laugh. "That's amazing! Thanks. And congrats, by the way. Had no clue you were that close to having another child."

Greg grinned, looking rather proud of his small part in things, and took a long sip of lager.

_____

Four pints later John was feeling quite loose and was sitting back in his seat smoking a cigarette. Greg was near nodding off across from him.

"Maybe I should take you up on the matchmaking," John said, feeling more than a little like getting a leg over and knowing there was really no other feasible option.

Greg grinned and nodded sloppily. "About time. I'll introduce you to Rachel later this week."

"Yeah, good, good," John said, feeling a bit queasy.

_____

It was dark by the time John made it back to the vicarage, weaving through the grass and frowning. He should have been happy to have a date. Surely, Rachel would be a lovely girl. And that, that, he thought, is what mattered, not how he felt about some brilliant man he knew.

It was enough to shock him near out of his shorts when Sherlock stepped out onto the front porch, Merrick in tow. He stood in the grass for a minute, confused, before Sherlock walked over to him and stood painfully close.

"You're drunk," Sherlock murmured.

"You're tall," John blurted.

Sherlock's face remained blank. "You should get to bed."

That somehow made something in John's chest clench painfully. He wanted Sherlock's smile again. His lips.

"I'm not," John said, nose scrunching up, "not good. I'm not a good man, you know. Not really."

Sherlock's face softened a bit and his hand hovered just next to John's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to get married," John admitted without any explanation.

"So you'll stay a bachelor?" Sherlock asked, his throat suddenly feeling tight as he closed the space and touched John's shoulder.

"Your hand is warm," John said, taking a step closer.

Sherlock pulled it away, as if burned, and John caught it in his. He held it awkwardly for a second before reaching out to touch Sherlock's neck.

"It's just cold out, so, so you're cold," Sherlock sputtered.

John rubbed his thumb in slow circles on Sherlock's neck and took another step closer, now having to look up to stare into Sherlock's eyes. "So warm."

Sherlock breathed out until he felt like a crumpled piece of paper and let his eyes fall closed. 

"You're brilliant, you know," John said, his voice a whisper. "You're brilliant and so warm. You deserve so much."

"John," Sherlock choked tightly.

"What are you doing talking to me?" John asked, face screwed up and thumb still moving. "I'm old and broken and you're so warm and soft."

"I think you'd better get inside," Sherlock said, licking his lips and swallowing roughly.

"Suppose so," John agreed softly.

It took an excruciatingly long forty-five seconds for his hand to fall from Sherlock's neck. Sherlock drew in a quick breath and stepped back.

"You've stolen my dog," John said, looking down at Merrick. "Now I'm alone."

"You aren't alone, John," Sherlock said. "You don't...you don't have to be alone."

John nodded once and walked past Sherlock and into the house, the dog looking at his back and then up to Sherlock as if trying to convey some deep confusion. 

Sherlock patted him on the head and walked him back inside, kneeling to whisper to him seriously. "Go keep him company."


	12. Want

He'd been flirting with John, he knew he had. At the end of the case? The suggestion of the battlefield? Yes. Flirting. Which meant, that John's reaction, to flirt back, should have been predicted. It was the fact that it wasn't something HE had predicted that had blindsided him. He was blindsided by his ability to be blindsided. Bloody hell.

And now he was at home, alone, in his warm bed, and losing his mind. 

John.

It had been years since he'd fallen so thoroughly for someone, and he felt, at the time of their painful parting, that it was a good thing. Victor had been his friend in university. They'd become close during Sherlock's last year and had even kissed on several occasions. Victor saw no reason for things to change when he was married the following year. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was broken. His heart felt torn from his chest at the way Victor smiled at his fiancé and no matter how many times Victor told him he was seeing things, he couldn't go on. He simply couldn't live with the idea of Victor laying under the sheets with the woman when he'd never done the same with him.

That was when he decided to remain a bachelor for the rest of his days.

Twenty-three was rather young to make such a decision, but life hadn't given him many choices, had it?

He felt it was good that people found him odd, sometimes off putting. It seemed easier to find nearly everyone around you an imbecile, as that stopped you from forming attachments. In an age where you could be arrested for having wants like his, attachments were dangerous.

His strangeness had definitely been a benefit when his mother, the hopeful woman, had attempted to find him someone to marry. The family was wealthy and well revered, making it difficult for Sherlock to avoid the pointed stares of many young women. A handful of animal remains was usually enough, though, to keep them at bay. They wanted to be married to a rich man, not a madman.

There had been one woman that wasn't as easily swayed, Molly Hooper, but that hadn't lasted long, after Sherlock's mother passed. Molly had clung to the hope that their shared interests in science and the internal workings of the human body would change his mind. No matter how many blank stares and cold shoulders he gave, she continued to look at him with such fondness as to embarrass anyone in their right mind. 

Once his mother had passed he sat down with her and explained, in (somewhat) a crude manner, as he didn't think she was the type to bring the issue to the local police, how their relationship would not work. Her response was as he had expected; she blushed and stammered and even apologized. They had actually become somewhat like colleagues after that. He'd made sure to introduce her to the coroner, a portly and kind man named Mike who was always willing to let Sherlock use equipment, and they'd quickly fallen in love.

So, yes, with his peculiar habits and unconventional tastes, he ended up alone.

Alone suited him well for many years. He was alone, but never lonely. He had many loves. Enough to last a lifetime. 

He loved nature and the way it never ceased to show the frailty of the world in the broken and malformed attempts at replication. He loved watching insects hover and hop, loved seeing fish live, die and decay. 

He loved chemistry. Loved how every process had its own way, loved how it picked apart transformation and explained it. He loved that he could predict the outcome of an experiment and feel all-knowing in doing so. He loved how much he had yet to learn.

He loved criminal justice, loved cases and all the questions they held. He loved figuring it all out and being able to use not only his mind, but his body to find and subdue the wicked. 

He was never alone, surrounded by nature and fickle humanity. 

So, it was strange, how now he felt it. Felt loneliness whenever John wasn't at his side. Felt that the air next to him was moving differently, as though a sudden storm would prove that rain fell everywhere but that compact space John should have held. Ridiculous thoughts. Ridiculous.

And now, John had touched his neck and whispered close enough that he felt it on his skin, and called him soft. God, he felt so soft. Felt light and airy and buttery soft when John was around, felt he could float away at the right word. 

Each time he spent the day with John it was an act of rediscovery. He swore he stood in the stream differently when John was with him, looked at the world anew. Reminding John of his surroundings felt like a mission, like something was calling to him.

He lay back in his bed and closed his eyes, hand moving up to touch the skin where John's fingers had earlier been. He wanted to be soft for John. Soft and warm.

_____

John stumbled out of bed while it was still dark, head aching and reaching around for the light switch. That, he realised, was a horrid idea. The light burned, leaving marks on his vision, and he slammed it back off.

"Bloody, buggering," he grumbled, finding the loo and relieving himself after stubbing a toe on the tub.

He hadn't really drank enough to be in this bad of shape, he thought. It hadn't seemed like that much alcohol. But he was sure as hell feeling the after effects and regretting it. Why he hadn't said no to Greg's offer to buy shots, he didn't know.

Well, that wasn't completely true. He knew, alright. He knew that the reason he had said yes directly linked to one Sherlock Holmes. He'd never been so completely enthralled by someone before. He wanted to touch the man, and that wasn't going to happen, so he drank. He drank to stop his fingers from remembering the warmth of Sherlock's skin as he'd put the blanket over him on the sofa that day. 

They had twitched against that skin, just a small twitch, but it felt like allowing himself a caress. 

When he remembered his interaction with Sherlock on the front step of the bloody vicarage, he had to grab the edge of the basin.


	13. Don't Say That

John couldn't go back to sleep. He spent the next five hours writing and wondering if he should just move. If he moved, it would be a new start. He could keep himself from feeling like this about a man ever again. He could keep his distance.

But, God, how the thought made his chest hurt. He ached when he imagined a life without Sherlock.

He would just have to push it away. If the army had taught him anything, it was how to compartmentalize. He would tuck away his fondness for Sherlock and continue his path towards being his friend. That, and he would act as if the whole touching business hadn't happened.

By nine o'clock he was out the door, bidding Mrs Hudson and Merrick a quick goodbye, and heading to the police station. The cabbie knew the way, so he sat back in his seat and tried to control his breathing. 

His plan was to invite Rachel to the jazz concert and put her into the bit of hollowed out space in his heart that Sherlock currently resided in. Nothing to do but keep busy. If he pretended that he cared about her, he certainly would eventually. Eventually was soon enough. 

The cab pulled up and John payed the driver and got out.

Two steps towards the building had him turning and walking in the other direction. He just...he just needed time to think, that was all. Perhaps he should have walked.

Thinking out of doors at that hour would have ended uncomfortably, the frost coming in without care for the time of year and nipping relentlessly at his nose, easy target that it was. He figured it wouldn't be too bad an idea to head to the pub to have a pint. Then he would feel less likely to bolt again.

Yes, it wasn't the best coping mechanism, but it was the only one he currently had. 

The barmaid smiled at him as he sat on an empty stool in front of her. He nodded his good morning and glanced at the back wall. The bottle of amber stuff in the upper right corner seemed to wink at him when another patron walked through the door. 

With a twitch, he pointed. "Two fingers."

"Anything else, vicar?" the woman asked, smiling a bit more than should be allowed in such a place at such a time.

"Thank you, no," he said, licking his lips and picking up the glass.

She watched him look into the glass for a bit and took her leave, going to pretend to dust as the holy man imbibed before the day had actually begun. She wasn't one to judge.

It made John sick that she had seen in his eyes something that told her to leave, but it couldn't be helped. His mind was running circles and he knew the creases in his forehead told a less than friendly story. He swallowed the whiskey down and played with the glass a bit more until the burn had left his throat, the steadiness overtaking him a simple trick of the mind, and then paid and left.

He kept his head down as he walked to the end of the street. It felt as if he wouldn't know where he was walking if he didn't look up. It also felt like the short walk ending in a gulping sea with circling sharks. 

Instead, he made his way into the police station.

"Vicar," a constable said, turning and holding his hand out.

John shook it and looked around.

"You out chasing down more baddies for us?" the man teased.

"Baddies?" John asked, wondering if his breath smelled of whiskey and wishing he'd done something about it.

"Sure," the constable replied. "The killer wife is behind bars and you've got yourself a reputation. Who'll it be next?"

"Well," John said, trying for confident, "when was the last time you gave to your local church?"

The constable laughed, a brash thing that set John more on edge, and clapped him on the back. "You're a funny one. You'll be here for Lestrade. Head back to his office."

John nodded and walked down the long hall.

"And don't get into any fist fights on the way, troublemaker," the constable yelled.

John nodded and kept moving, the hallway seeming to narrow as he did. He made it into Greg's office and sat down in one of the open chairs. He clenched his thigh as his leg bounced.

By the time he'd decided he was simply going to ask for the woman's number from Greg and do the whole business over the phone, the doorknob turned. He shot out of his seat. When he turned he felt the air knocked from his lungs and wished dearly that he wasn't such a coward.

"John," Sherlock said, obviously just as surprised.

John swallowed hard and nodded.

"I was...what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, stumbling over his words as he locked the door behind himself.

John's eyes shot to the doorknob and he could actually feel the dump of adrenalin in his system. Shit. Shit. Buggering hell. Locked in a room with Sherlock Holmes and he was sweating like a-

"DI Lestrade has a couple of tickets for me," he said, mouth working strangely as his eyes stayed one the doorknob.

"Tickets?" Sherlock asked, wriggling his hips a bit as his brow tightened.

"A jazz club," John said quickly, telling the closest thing to the truth that he could.

Sherlock nodded slowly and watch the pulse quicken in John's neck.

"I know," John added with a forced laugh, "first vicar you've heard of that likes jazz. I'm sure you think it nonsensical-"

"I love jazz," Sherlock replied, taking a step forward and wondering when the word love had been given permission to come into his lexicon.

John stuck his hands in his pockets and finally glanced up, surprised. "Oh, I'd thought, well, that you'd prefer something more...mathematical."

"I find the sense of adventure and uncertainty refreshing," Sherlock explained.

"Refreshing," John said, nodding and licking his lips.

"Exciting," Sherlock said a bit softer. "I like to, to be surprised."

"I'm surprised that you can be surprised," John said. He felt himself turning red at the ridiculous phrase and plowed on. "You seem to know everything, see everything, I mean. Interesting that some things can still surprise you."

Sherlock took another, completely involuntary, step forward. He felt as if he was sleep walking. "Some things."

"L-like jazz," John replied.

"And you," Sherlock murmured, eyes flitting back and forth between John's lips and eyes.

"Me?" John huffed, hating the warmth he now felt in his chest. Why he should feel pride over that, he didn't know.

"Last night was surprising," Sherlock said, hands shaking.

"Last night, yes, I'm sorry, that was completely-" John tried.

"Not exactly ideal," Sherlock interrupted.

John cocked his head to the side, unsure of what he was getting at. The move seemed to knock Sherlock for a loop and John thanked the man upstairs for a bit surer footing.

"B-but not unwanted," Sherlock stammered.

And there went that footing.

"Don't say that," John found himself saying, looking around the empty room nervously.

He missed the way that affected Sherlock, the way he now stood a bit taller, the way the anger took away that bit of shyness he'd seen. When he turned back around, the younger man was very nearly looming over him.

"Why not?" Sherlock spat.

John watched the way Sherlock's chin wobbled slightly and cleared his throat. "Here. Don't...don't say that here."

Sherlock's face crumbled a bit in relief and John couldn't help but cup his cheek with one hand, the other going to his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes teared up and John squeezed his shoulder.

"Hush," he whispered. "Alright, alright."

Sherlock swallowed and looked to the floor, shaking like a leaf where he stood. There was a rap at the door and both men jumped, Sherlock quickly unlocking it and standing back. 

Lestrade opened it and strong-armed his way in, coffee in hand and a scowl on his face. "You two had better not be colluding in here. I've already had a hell of a day and it's only morning."

Sherlock and John looked at each other for a second and then started talking at once. John backed off and Sherlock went on.

"You promised me a cold case," he said, eyes moving haphazardly around the room.

Greg grunted and went to his Sherlock drawer, pulling out the top file and passing it over before looking to John.

"The-the uh, name of that jazz club again," John said quickly.

Greg nodded and wrote it on the corner of a piece of paper. The sound as he tore it off felt a bit loud to John. He snatched it from Greg's hand and nodded before turning and leaving without another word.

When he made it outside he found Sherlock standing at the opening to the bike path, like a beacon calling to him from across the empty road. He faltered for a moment before walking to him quickly.

"What are you doing Friday night?" he asked as they started up walking together.

"Going to a jazz club?" Sherlock asked, brows knit.

John laughed and nudged him with his shoulder. "Right you are."

It seemed less cold out, and as they walked it felt more like summer to John. He reached out and picked a seed pod, passing it to Sherlock and watching him eviscerate it out of the corner of his eye. 

"Why did you need whiskey to ask Lestrade for the name of the club?" Sherlock asked after they'd been walking in silence for a while.

"It was a rough night," John lied.

Sherlock looked over at him, seeing it as such, but said nothing.

"If you want to look over the case at the vicarage, I'm sure Mrs Hudson will make us tea," John added.

Sherlock hummed. "That would be nice."

John smiled and nodded in agreement.


	14. The Great Conquerer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love is the great conquerer of lust." -C. S. Lewis

That afternoon they sat closer than they should have allowed themselves and went over the cold case for several hours. Mrs Hudson made them tea and finger sandwiches and they conversed with mouths half full and hearts beating quickly. 

Around three Sherlock left, sprinting out the door to speak with Greg, and John picked up the vicarage phone. The man he needed to speak with told him he could come at once. It was, after all, a church emergency.

_____

The burns were still there from the war but the tightness around James's eyes had disappeared. He smiled softly and John wondered how it was that he'd never met this man on the battlefield. And then, he supposed, there was the answer. The battlefield was what brought that tightness, that downward turn of the lip. Somehow James had figured out how to leave it behind. 

"Vicar Watson," James said, removing his gardening gloves and going to open the gate surrounding his small churchyard. "Do come in."

"It's good to see you, Major," John replied reflexively.

"Not a major anymore," James said with a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Now tell me about your crisis."

Still straight to the point. Apparently some things didn't change.

"I'm not sure I'm the best fit for this congregation," John said, sitting on a bench next to James and folding his hands in his lap. "I know you had a hand in finding it for me, and I'm sorry I never thanked you for that, but I'm not sure I'm the man they need."

"Surety often signals lack of thought," James replied. "I'm hardly ever sure of anything."

"James," John huffed, showing his anger a bit, as he thought he wasn't being taken seriously.

James sat back in his seat and narrowed his eyes. "Is this a crisis of faith, or a crisis of self?"

"Both, perhaps," John said, pausing. "I'm not sure the church is the right place for me. Not sure they would want me if they...knew what kind of man I am."

"Oh," James said with a soft sigh, "is that it? You know, you believed the same thing of the army back when you were fighting under me. Thought a man with the kind of interests as you would be better somewhere besides the front lines."

John scratched the back of his neck, remembering how incredibly foolish he'd been to let James know of his feelings for him, even if it wasn't intentional.

"Do you remember what I told you then?" James asked carefully.

John kept his head down.

"I told you that God sent you, that he put you exactly where you needed to be," James continued.

John shrugged. "The people of this town are good people. They deserve better than a sinner. If they knew-"

"You act as if they don't sin themselves. Do you really think there is nothing in their private hours they would find shame in? Every man sins, John. If your sin is love, it's better than most."

John looked up at him and swallowed hard, lips pursing. "You don't think I'll lead them astray with my...lusts?"

"Love is the great conquerer of lust," James replied. "I'm quite sure whoever he is deserves that love."

"Then you think I'm fit to stay?" John asked, completely flummoxed by how the conversation had gone.

"I think that you bring others to God, and I think that's a gift not to be given up so freely," James said. "But I also think the decision to stay is yours alone."

_____

That Friday morning, after meeting in town at the grocery, John and Sherlock came back to the vicarage to find the lights off and the house empty, but for Merrick. Mrs Hudson had left a message tacked to the front door that she had gone to see her ailing sister and that there was a shepherd's pie in the ice box that should last the two days she was gone. John folded the paper and opened the door, Merrick spilling out and wriggling as Sherlock greeted him.

"I suppose we'll have to make our own tea," John said, walking to the kitchen and filling the kettle. When he turned around to put it on the stovetop Sherlock was standing in the doorway, silently watching him. He averted his gaze and started the burner. "Should be some biscuits in one of the cabinets."

Sherlock nodded and walked past him, eyes on the floor. They hadn't talked since earlier that week and he was feeling a bit out of sorts. So many things can change in only a few days, especially things as fickle as the workings of the heart. When he was in front of the pantry he paused and looked over his shoulder. "Did you mean it? About tonight ?"

John cocked his head to the side. Of course he bloody meant it. "Yes, why?"

Sherlock looked to be thinking on that for a moment before he spoke. "It's just, well I had thought you were asking someone else. Liquid courage and all."

John felt his face flush and nodded. "I was having Lestrade set me up with someone. I thought...after the night before, I thought I should just find some woman and-"

"But now you won't," Sherlock interrupted, turning fully and closing the space between them, "you won't find some woman to marry. You have to say that, even if it isn't true, because I can't-"

"I'm in love with you," John admitted.

"Well, as nice that is a sentiment, you do realise that doesn't change my request," Sherlock said, hands moving in agitation to his hips.

"I'm not interested in finding anyone else," John said, "not anymore."

"You'd damn yourself to a life of secrecy?" Sherlock asked, voice faltering. "Abandon the life you want for yourself? Abandon the word of God?"

"I honestly can't see a world where something as simple and harmless as loving a man could be the wrong thing. I just...I've killed and I've nearly died and those things are sharp and demanding and this is so...simple. There's no effort in loving you, it just happens," John replied, voice rough with all the things he'd been fighting himself over. "I can live my whole life denying who I am, or I can try to be the best form of myself. Im tired of fighting."

"So...what now?" Sherlock asked, voice soft and full of emotion.

John gripped his hand and pulled him closer. "Now we make our tea and sit together in the library. And after, we walk by the water. And if you're very good I might have to kiss you below that old oak at the end of the drive."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed and John turned to pour the water.


	15. Beautiful

After sitting for several hours reading, John decided they should head out to the field. Sherlock had mentioned earlier that a specific type of butterfly should be about soon and he was interested to see it, or at least to see Sherlock delight in a sighting. The man was always so enthralled by insects and plants. He made a very good naturalist.

"Put the book down," John said as Sherlock began walking outside with it still held in front of his face.

Sherlock huffed, but followed the order, and John grabbed some things from the kitchen. He would be hungry soon, even if Sherlock wasn't.

"Where did Merrick make it to?" Sherlock asked as he caught up with John just as they made it outside.

John nodded towards the far trees. "Took off like a rocket. He'll be at the water already, I'd bet."

"I could use a dip," Sherlock replied, already removing his shirt. "The warmth doesn't treat me well."

John tried his best not to stare at him as let the shirt fall from his shoulders and tucked it unceremoniously into his trousers at the hip.

"I turn red, as well, so we'd best find a place with shade," Sherlock added, looking back and forth for the perfect bit of water.

"There's a rope swing down here," John said, heading off in one direction, "in the bows of an enormous tree. Plenty of shade."

Sherlock followed along, pointing out different wildflowers along the way as if it was a compulsion.

"What kind of wildflowers were there where you were stationed in the war?" he asked. 

"The only ones I ever had time to properly look at were the types of ground cover near our base. One-o-clocks and small pruple flowers with leaves that graduated from green to red up the stem," John said.

"Lamium purpureum," Sherlock replied. "When I was young, my uncle made me tidy the yard with a dandelion grubber. He didn't realise that I simply replanted them behind the gardening shed. Needless to say, they returned."

"Just couldn't kill them?" John asked, smiling softly as he came up to the rope swing and rested on the branch to remove his shoes and socks.

Sherlock came up beside him and shrugged. "It was too simple to replant, what with the roots coming up without damage. I never understood why he didn't like them. They were flowers in a garden, after all. Just flowers."

Sherlock said it with such softness in his voice, such sympathy, that John found himself pulling him by the hand until he'd fallen into his lap. His arms wrapped around the man's waist as he took in the fine flush that was appearing on his neck.

"You're as beautiful as any flower," John murmured, breath catching in his throat.

Sherlock's mouth formed a shocked 'o' and John chuckled at it, reaching up to brush his hair from his brow.

"Will you kiss me now?" Sherlock asked, blush growing and making its way to the tips of his ears even as it bloomed on his chest.

John licked his lips and tried to look out of options. "Well, once again, you've got the advantage of height on me, so-"

Sherlock ducked down and sealed their lips together soundly, surprising both of them and letting out a small squeak. John huffed against his mouth and held him close, shocked by how plush his lips were. For some reason, he had thought that kissing a man would be markedly different from kissing a woman. He found that the only difference was that the lips belonged to a man.

Sherlock pulled away and cleared his throat, eyes going to the water. "Are you coming in?"

"I think I will," John said, letting go of Sherlock's waist so the man could stand and remove his trousers.

Sherlock slipped from them and folded them haphazardly before toeing out of his shoes and socks and going to the water's edge. He dipped his foot in and splashed it around a bit before walking into the water, up to his waist.

"Is it cold?" John asked as he removed the rest of his clothes and stood on the bank in just his pants.

"Mild," Sherlock said.

Merrick came running just then, thoroughly soaked and covered in the sandy muck that made up the bank in the area, and jumped with such force as to near soak John. Sherlock watched, eyes wide, and laughed harder than John had ever heard. 

John shook off and grumbled. "Bloody dog."

Sherlock continued to laugh and started to splash John as well.

"Oi!" John shouted, "don't encourage the behavior!"

Merrick climbed back out of the water and started running back and forth on the shore as quickly as he could. 

"You're wet now," Sherlock said. "No avoiding it."

John threw his hands up and then jumped into the water where it was deepest, disappearing for a second far below the surface before reemerging. Sherlock swam to him and giggled when he shook the water from his short hair.

"You're brave after all," he said, treading water in front of John as Merrick swam out to join them.

John rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock under, the two of them wrestling and laughing the whole while.

Merrick had never been so happy.

_____

By the time they had made it back to the vicarage, they were both exhausted and grinning stupidly. Sherlock went to find towels as John brought the food he hadn't eaten to the kitchen and set it out on the table. When Sherlock returned he went straight to the cheese and started eating, handing the towel over just as he sat.

It took John a moment to pick it off the floor, the sight of Sherlock with his hair in a towel on top of his head too adorable to keep him from staring. He looked rather posh like that.

"We've got a train to catch in an hour," John said, wrapping the towel around his waist, as the sun had already dried his hair on the walk back. "Do we need to stop by your house for new clothes?"

Sherlock grunted and nodded, still chewing.

"I'll call a cab," John replied, going into the hallway and doing just that as Sherlock ate the heel of bread in two bites.

Once he was done eating Sherlock stepped into the loo to change back into his clothes and came out to find John leaning against the wall in a suit he'd never even imagined John wearing. It occurred to him then that he'd actually expected John to go to the jazz club in his usual dark suit and dog collar.

This suit was a much brighter blue pin stripe than he'd expected, double breasted and cinched at the waist. The shirt underneath was an unsurprising bone white, but the tie more than made up for it with its diamond pattern and orange and beige colouring.

"John," he said, not sure he could form another word if he tried.

"Do I clean up well?" John asked, comb running through his hair to adjust it, the pomade making it shine. 

Sherlock simply stared at him and John laughed and nudged him with the toe of his shoe. The sound of the cab approaching pulled Sherlock from his trance and they walked out to it together, trying not to look terribly in love.

_____

At Sherlock's house, he quickly put on a pair of tan trousers and a slightly darker sport coat. The choice of a striped shirt underneath without a tie was a bit risqué, and that's what he was going for. He slipped a tie in his pocket in case the club wanted to fight over it and fiddled with the top two buttons on his shirt, deciding to leave them open.

He got back into the cab next to John and tried not to blush under his gaze as they started off towards the station.


	16. If You Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to the end, folks.

The club was dark, lights pulled down low to encourage intimacy. The walls were a deep red and covered in photos of musicians, many of them smiling raucously. Sherlock ran his fingers along the wall just below them as they were shown to a table near the front, trying to memorize each face, jealous of their openness.

The room was painfully full, standing room only at that point, but John and his guest had been saved a table right in the middle of the action. The action at that point was a man with russet skin playing the piano. His fingers moved quickly, not caressing, but assaulting the keys. 

They sat at the small table, fingers dangerously close together but for the small candle between them, and were asked for their order. 

"Whiskey," John said, nodding to Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The same."

"Have you ever been to London?" John asked as the waiter left them.

"I went to school here," Sherlock replied, looking slightly pained. "I would say it was a mistake to leave, but now I've met you."

John smiled at him in a way he knew gave away his fierce sentiment. "I somehow couldn't imagine you in a place without nature."

"I've adapted quite well. The bustle of the city is more my style, though. Anonymity is much more comfortable when you're seen as the odd one out in your home town. And...because of the type of man I am. I'd hoped to move back someday," Sherlock admitted.

"Don't dash those hopes," John said, leaning close to look Sherlock in the eyes to his point across. "Anonymity might end up suiting us well."

"You'd give up your position?" Sherlock asked, shock evident in his brow.

John shrugged. "I've always wanted to get back into helping the underserved. The slums are much closer to the battlefield than anything country life could provide. I could lend a hand with medical issues as well as preaching. I've only just adapted to country life myself."

"You've just met me," Sherlock said softly, "yet you seem so sure."

"I'd follow you anywhere," John replied, smiling and shaking his head as if even he couldn't believe it.

The waiter came them with their drinks and they settled into their seats, eyes moving to the new addition to the stage, a woman with a sultry voice, and legs tangling in secret below the thick cloth handing from the table.

_____

When the night was over, both men riding on a high of adrenalin, they made their way back to catch the late train home. Once they were in their own cabin, tucked away from everyone else, John spoke.

"Will you spend the night with me? Mrs Hudson will be out for another day or so. I don't...I don't want tonight to be over."

Sherlock looked grave. "Tell me again how you love me."

"Deeply. Voraciously. Unendingly," John replied softly. "I love you more than I thought I could."

"Then, yes," Sherlock said, nodding resolutely. 

_____

The cab ride home from the train was silent, but as soon as they made it through the doors of the vicarage Sherlock was bubbling over with sudden commentary.

"We never boxed. Perhaps tomorrow we should head to the gymnasium. It should be a mild day out. Unless, unless you need time to write your sermon for Sunday. Should I come? Should I come to the sermon? Do you need me to start coming to church? Becuase I don't-"

"Hush," John said, steadying him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I have no interest in changing you. You're stubborn and stuck in your ways, and that's fine with me."

"If, if I were a woman," Sherlock said, face scrunched up, "I don't think I'd make a very good vicar's wife."

"I'm not looking for that. If I had been, I would have married long ago," John said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Take me to bed," Sherlock spat. "Take me to bed right now."

John chuckled and pulled him close for a kiss. Sherlock sighed as John's hands found their way into his hair and fingers scratched at his scalp. When he pulled away he was already breathless.

John showed him up to his room, walking him to the edge of his bed and kissing him roughly. It was intoxicating. He let his lips part slightly, the feel of Sherlock's bottom lip between his a surprise, and Sherlock's fingers went to the buttons of his shirt.

He let himself be undressed, Sherlock's hands shaking as he got to his trousers, and then sat back on the bed to let Sherlock remove his shoes and sock and pull his trousers off. He chuckled at the fervor with which Sherlock tossed everything aside and pulled him up and into his lap.

"You're gorgeous," he whispered, arms wrapped around Sherlock's slim hips.

"John," Sherlock murmured, glad the dark was hiding his blush.

"Tell me what you'd like," John prompted, licking his lips and rubbing at Sherlock's sides.

"I've never, that is, not properly..." Sherlock tried, eyebrows drawing together.

"Neither have I," John admitted, "not with a man."

It surprised him that the admission didn't make him feel foolish. Sherlock's inexperience seemed to soothe him a bit. He smiled up at the man and drew his hand up to kiss it.

"I'd like to touch you," Sherlock said, voice cracking.

"Go on," John said, lips parting against Sherlock's fingers.

"And be, be, nude," Sherlock stuttered, the last word turning into a moan as John sucked the tip of one finger into his mouth and dragged his teeth across the pad. 

He let his eyes fall closed as John started to strip him, deft fingers unbuttoning his shirt and trousers quickly as he struggled to breathe evenly and slip out of his suit jacket. He pulled his shirt over his head and flung it against the wall, then stood on shaking legs. Soon enough, he was naked and climbing onto the bed.

John lay next to him and ran a hand up his thigh, whispering in the dark. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock surged forward and pressed their lips back together, hands gripping John's biceps tightly. John was hot. His skin was soft under Sherlock's fingers. Everything felt electric. Sherlock rubbed up and down his body, fingers tripping over nipples and settling at the edge of John's pants. John slithered out of them and kicked them off the bed, laying back with his hands beneath his head so Sherlock could explore.

Sherlock was immediately drawn to his cock. It stood, jutting out from a thatch of dark blond hair, and Sherlock found himself touching it. He ran his fingers up it, encircling the shaft loosely and causing John to buck his hips. He giggled, honest to God, giggled, and John huffed out a laugh as well.

"Enjoying torturing me, are you?" John asked, rolling his hips and grinning up at Sherlock.

"You're incredibly sensitive," Sherlock replied, thumb rubbing at the head of John's cock.

John huffed again, this time more of a grunt. "It's, ah, a sensitive area."

"Could I kiss it?" Sherlock asked left hand going to the base of John's cock and scratching through the coarse hair.

"You want to, to do that?" John asked, suddenly feeling as though the dark room was an endless plane and he was never going to leave it. Never wanted to leave it.

"Are you going to make me repeat myself?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raising and a smile pulling at his lips.

"Do it, then," John sputtered, not sure how he was meant to live through something of this sort, "if you like."

Sherlock moved down the bed and bent to inspect John's prick closely. John steadied himself for his lips and instead saw him wave his hand in an agitated manner.

"I need light," Sherlock said. "This is no good."

John slumped to the bed, letting out a strangled laugh, before reaching to the bedside lamp and turning it on. Sherlock hummed and gripped him more firmly. It knocked all the damn air from his lungs and he lay there panting as Sherlock took back up his inspection. 

"You're a true blond, then," Sherlock said, fingers skating through John's pubic hair as he bent to breathe him in.

John felt overcome with embarrassment, never imagining a time when someone would be that close to his bollocks with their mouth. Sherlock hummed and John flushed anew.

Sherlock sat back a bit more and gave John's prick a careful pull. His interest, his brain, seemed to overcome the nervousness of the beginning of the endeavor. "It's quite large."

"Alright," John whispered.

He wasn't sure he could assist in this investigation. His brain seemed to have given up its will and, quite possibly, the whole of its blood flow, in favor of some kind of trance. His eyes wouldn't leave Sherlock's lips, unless it was to flit to his eyes and then back down, and he could scarcely breathe.

When Sherlock dipped down again and pressed a kiss to tip, breathing became a thing of the past. The look on Sherlock's face said he didn't particularly like the taste, which made it all the more astounding when he went back in for another kiss, and then a kitten-lick, and another.

"Oh, oh, that's," John tried, voice sounding oddly tight.

Sherlock licked again, this time looking up to see John's reaction and John grunted and pulled him up, just in time to shake and spurt against his naked thigh. He came hard. He wasn't sure he'd ever come so hard since he was a teenager. It was like learning what pleasure was all over again.

Sherlock grinned, and then moaned when he pressed himself down to rub against John's stomach. John was still writhing with his release, but had the sense to wrap Sherlock in his arms and encourage the action.

"Come on," he whispered, voice husky. "Come on, now."

Sherlock whimpered and started to thrust. His eyes rolled back in his head and the whimpers turned into groans as his body took over, seeking its own pleasure. John felt him twitch and gripped his arse as he started to come, warmth growing where his sticky release soaked John's skin.

"My God," Sherlock moaned, falling against John's chest with a thump.

John giggled and ran his hands over Sherlock's back as the man grew boneless. After a while, he was able to convince Sherlock to get up and cleaned a bit before crawling back under the covers.

They lay there, in a tight embrace, and fell into sleep.


	17. Happy And Safe

John woke first, humming and nosing at the back of Sherlock's neck even before he was cognizant enough to realize he had the man in his bed. He sought out the warmth and newly familiar scent and pressed into it, is all. It felt good. He felt truly happy for the first time in years.

He slowly opened his eyes and pulled Sherlock closer, grinning to himself at how incredibly lucky he was to have found him. Bloody hell, he was so in love.

"John, you horrible man, don't wake me yet," Sherlock groaned, rolling so he could bury his nose under the covers against John's chest. He snuffled a bit there and fell back asleep.

John chuckled and let him. He was warm, and happy, and the world could wait.

_____

When they woke again, an hour or so later, the sun was coming through a crack in the blinds. It had the nerve to land right across John's eyes. He couldn't be arsed to do anything but roll over. Sherlock groaned and wrapped long limbs around him from behind.

"We really ought to get up," John said, smiling again as he noticed he was without the headache that came from too much drinking. (Two whiskeys in five hours. Thank the heavens.)

"I'm starving," Sherlock groaned, loosening his grip so John could climb out of bed and pad towards the loo.

"And for once, willing to admit it," John called over his shoulder.

"Don't rub it in," Sherlock replied, rolling onto his back and spreading out to take up the whole of the bed.

He heard John turn on the tap and went to stand in the doorway, situating himself to hide most of his nudity. He watched John's body move, curious, eyes settling on the scar on his shoulder. When John turned he found himself looking somewhere else entirely.

John smiled at him cheekily and went to brush his teeth, handing over the brush and toothpaste after he was done. Sherlock took it and looked it over before piling the brush with toothpaste and scrubbing at his teeth and tongue.

"Want a shower?" John asked, walking closer and hesitating before resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I could have one after."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped against John with a huff, spitting and setting the brush aside. "After what I did last night, I hardly think modesty is necessary."

John took in a quick breath, as if remembering, and shifted on his feet. "Fair point. It was, that is, last night-"

"More than satisfactory," Sherlock interrupted. "I expect we'll have to sneak away for quite a bit more of that in coming days."

John hummed and kissed Sherlock on the forehead before turning to check the water temperature. Once deeming it warm enough he turned on the shower and stepped in. Sherlock followed after.

"Will you make me eggs?" Sherlock asked, rubbing the bar of soap across his body, eyes resolutely closed.

"Anything you like," John replied, leaning in to kiss Sherlock as the man rinsed.

Sherlock hummed against his lips and let John slip his tongue into his mouth. It was thrilling, the ease of it. It lacked the urgency he'd felt the night before, feeling as though now this was normal, as though, overnight, his world had shifted. He'd honestly not expected he'd ever have a satisfying relationship in his life, and now that the thought crossed his mind, he panicked.

"Hey," John said, pulling back as Sherlock breathed roughly.

"You love me," Sherlock said, as if trying to soothe himself.

"I do," John agreed.

Sherlock nodded and John leaned in again, pressing his lips to Sherlock's clavicle and kissing it gently. "I love you," he murmured, kissing Sherlock's shoulder. "I love you. I love you."

"Good. Yes, good," Sherlock said, eyebrows knit as he nodded. "Because I've never been loved before, and I wasn't sure that it would last past nightfall. The thrill of it being gone, and such."

"The thrill is hardly gone," John replied.

"I find," Sherlock whispered, "I find people tire of me quickly. You haven't, and that's a bit confusing."

"I suppose we're just suited to each other," John said, taking the soap from Sherlock's hand and turning him around by the shoulder to clean his back.

"I liked you from the start, you know," Sherlock said. "You let me talk and seemed fairly interesting. Stared at my lips a bit too long to seem casual."

John chuckled and went about cleaning himself. "I liked you from the start as well. You were unreal. Staring at the sky and laying about in the middle of the path like that."

"I was thinking," Sherlock explained.

"You're always thinking," John replied.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and climbed from the bath, feet leaving a trail behind him as he walked across the room for a towel. He was wrapped tightly and looking closely at his eyes in the mirror when John hopped out of the shower himself. His eyes closed as John sidled up next to him, soft smile forming as he watched him through the mirror.

"You mentioned something about eggs," John said, pushing him with his shoulder.

"All the eggs you have," Sherlock replied.

"I'll make you three," John said back, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "Dry the floor."

Sherlock grumbled and watched him go. He should have known he wouldn't be off the hook just by the talent of his mouth. John was just as stubborn as he was.

He looked at his face in the mirror a bit more, picking at imperfections and staring at his tongue, before doing as he was asked and getting back into his trousers and shirt from the night before.

Everything was rumpled, the time spent on the floor in a pile doing its damage, and he felt out of sorts. He was still trying to ease some of the wrinkles, when he made it into the kitchen.

John was cooking the eggs, along with some friend bread and tea, and humming to himself. It was a song from the club, the one he'd purchased the record of as they were leaving. It was impossible not to stare. John's hips sashayed from side to side as he pushed the eggs around in the pan and his head bobbed.

Once again, things seemed easy. He could imagine them living together, in a house of their own, surrounded by their favorite foods and random knickknacks. He was overwhelmed by the feeling of nostalgia for something that had never been, the feeling that it was so close to being a possibility that it already existed out there somewhere, on some other continent with two other men just like them.

It hit him just then that he hadn't imagined anything like it before, that he'd never really thought to dream of having a family. The realisation that he didn't have to live the rest of his life alone was a hot/cold lump in his stomach. 

Having never believed it was possible meant he'd never thought over whether it was something he would want. He felt foolish. He hadn't thought it through. He was imagining picking out plates and eating breakfast late on Saturdays and the little play fights over the table and he hadn't even thought it through.

"You look as though you're going to be sick," John said, somehow done with cooking and appraising Sherlock from the opposite side of the room.

Sherlock swallowed and looked up. "I need to finish the cold case for Lestrade."

"Eat your eggs, then," John said, bringing him a plate. "You can bring the case back here later if you'd like."

"I would," Sherlock replied shakily.

"Are you alright?" John asked, cocking his head to the side.

"I will be," Sherlock replied as honestly as he could manage. 

_____

A few hours after Sherlock left, there was a knock at the door. John wasn't sure who it was, he'd not been expecting anyone, but the knock sounded urgent. When he rounded the corner and saw Sherlock's brother his stomach knotted. The man was wearing his usual frown as John opened the door.

"Can I help you?" he asked flatly.

"I have no problem with my brother's interests," Mycroft said, poking incessantly at the ground with the end of his umbrella. "And you seem to make him happy."

John waited for him to go on for a moment, and then, seeing that he wouldn't, crossed his arms and spoke. "And?"

"And I'm quite wealthy," Mycroft said, looking pained.

John snorted, mouth twitching up on one side. "Not exactly sure what you're trying to say."

"If you needed it, money, that is, to make my brother comfortable, you would have it. It and any one of our homes across England. We have quite a few." Mycroft explained.

"Look, if you think I'm interested in your family's money-" John spat.

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively and John wondered if his whole family had that quirk. "Think of it as a dowry."

John snorted. "That's not-"

"Let me," Mycroft said, shaking a bit, "let me do this. I don't do enough for him. I can't be the confidant he needs, can't be the comfort. You do that quite well, so...let me be the purse. God knows he doesn't get paid for his little escapades with the police."

John frowned at the slight blasphemy, but nodded. 

"Don't let him get killed," Mycroft added, "that's all I ask. Just...keep him happy and safe."


	18. London

Fate showed mercy on them less than a month later. They were working on a cold case together at the vicarage when Greg showed up at the front door with what he thought was bad news.

"Do you mind if I come in?" he asked, looking worried.

John nodded towards the library where Sherlock was splayed out on the sofa dramatically, the sudden heat wave doing strange things to his hair and shrouding him in a haze of agitation. He frowned at Greg as he entered the room and threw an arm over his eyes.

"I've got some news," Greg said, slipping his jacket off and settling in the seat closest to the fan.

"Out with it," Sherlock sighed.

Greg chewed his lip and went on. It honestly felt like a betrayal. "I've had a job offer."

Sherlock sat up, the papers on his lap falling to the floor in a flurry. "What on earth do you mean by-"

John settled a hand on his shoulder and felt the stress in the tightness of his muscles.

"I've had an offer from the Met. I'll be moving to London in three months' time. I've already talked to Dimmock," Greg explained. "He'll let you on cases."

Sherlock glanced up at John, eyes searching. "London."

John nodded once, a whole conversation going on without a word, and Sherlock turned back to Greg. "That's quite a coincidence. We were thinking of moving to the city."

"What, together?" Greg asked, brow furrowed.

"John could hardly afford the city on his own," Sherlock said, noting John's discomfort but knowing it was a better answer than the alternative. Greg was a friend, but what they were involved in was still illegal. They had no way of knowing where his final allegiance might lie.

"Hell," Greg said, scratching the back of his neck, "I have to admit, that'll make my life easier. Well, relatively."

John snorted, drawing Sherlock's attention and a glare along with it.

"Well, I have to get back," Greg said finally, the silence dragging on longer than he was comfortable with.

"Have a good day," John said, watching him leave and then turning to Sherlock. "Let's go to the river."

Sherlock hopped from his seat. He was eager to speak to John in private and Mrs Hudson had been fluttering at their heels a bit more than normal, what with the heat keeping her from the garden.

Merrick walked after them, moving slowly and panting. They stopped in the kitchen on the way to grab cold drinks and Mrs H tisked over how hot it was out and how they would burn up or melt and leave her alone to grow old by herself with no one to talk to. That was one thing John found himself feeling more than a bit guilty for not thinking of. They both loved the woman, and, yes, she was strong enough to get by on her own, but they'd miss her.

Sherlock caught John's change in mood and gripped his hand the second they were out of sight, squeezing it to give some comfort before they could speak on it.

It hadn't seemed cool in the house, but the second they walked out the front door it was as if walking into an oven. They made it through the tall grass, all of it gone pale gold and dry by then, in record speed. The shade of the old oak was enough to make them pause and sit beneath it, Merrick looking back at the front porch of the house as if maybe it hadn't been the best idea to follow his people on this insane venture.

"You can still go back," Sherlock told the hound.

John smiled softly at the two of them. It was a habit of Sherlock's to act as though the dog could understand him. Sometimes Merrick seemed to, taking off in whichever direction Sherlock had suggested after cocking his head to the side several times. 

John leaned back against the tree, unbuttoning the front of his shirt and waving the placards to get some air circulation against his hot skin. Sherlock looked at the bit of skin revealed at the neck of his vest as if it were a difficult task to not reach out and touch it.

"We're really doing this," he finally said, partly a question, as he took his drink and pressed it to his forehead.

"I'll put in for a replacement tonight," John replied. "Could take longer than three months."

"We're mad," Sherlock said, eyes getting that far off look that said he was drifting into mind palace territory.

"We don't have to-" John supplied quickly.

"We have a house," Sherlock interrupted. "It's downtown, centrally located. It'll be easy enough to get our things moved in. Four bedrooms, three fireplaces. Used to be my aunt's. I spent time there as a child, before she took ill. Mycroft can't have any objections to us taking up residence. I'm sure he'd be plenty relieved to have me out of the house."

John noticed the nervousness in his voice and stood with a grunt, holding his hand out. "Let's get to the water."

Sherlock was easily pulled to his feet and they walked for another ten minutes until they made it to the tree John thought of as theirs. Sherlock was already slipping off his shoes and trousers and moving into the water on autopilot by the time they were at the edge and John paused, watching Merrick join him with a splash.

"Come in," Sherlock said, removing his shirt and folding it before tossing it to land. "Please. Come in."

John stripped down to his pants and met him halfway, smiling softly and running his fingers through loose curls. Sherlock choked on what sounded like a sob and pulled John close.

"Are you alright?" John asked, nervous at Sherlock's behavior.

"I can't, I just can't believe," Sherlock tried. "It's overwhelming for me when things go right for once."

"Breathe, yeah?" John soothed, rubbing Sherlock's back.

"I want to move now, I want to leave this place behind. I want to lay under the covers with you every night and walk around the flat starkers," Sherlock pressed. "I don't ever want to be away from you again. I don't want to go home tonight, I don't."

"I promise we'll move as soon as we can. Why don't you move ahead of me? Get the place ready?" John whispered, stroking through Sherlock's hair as Merrick came up to sniff out what was wrong.

"I am not leaving you," Sherlock spat, "not when I've just found you."

John chuckled and leaned back, pulling Sherlock's chin up for a kiss. Sherlock sighed against his mouth, eyes bleary and red.

"Whatever you want," John whispered.

"I want checked curtains in the kitchen and plates with plants and bees on them," Sherlock said very seriously. "And, and I want matching bath robes and I want to dance in the sitting room in the evenings. I want to make messes and I want you to hound me until I clean them. I want to sit next to the fire with you during the winter and I want you to go on cases with me. I'm losing my mind. I want it all. Is this hysteria? What are the signs of hysteria?"

John hushed him again and held him close. "You're a little worked up. You get that way sometimes, don't you?"

"I hardly think that's relevant," Sherlock huffed, arms falling to his sides.

"It's alright to get worked up. You always come out the other side, yeah?" John replied, looking Sherlock in the eye.

"Yes," Sherlock conceded.

"Good," John said, leaning in to kiss the man. "That's all I meant to say."

"Run away with me. We'll rent a room in London and stay there for the week. They don't really need you back until Sunday. Please. Please run away with me," Sherlock begged, eyes wide.

"Three days," John countered. "Back by Thursday. I'll say I'm visiting family."

Sherlock grinned and flopped back into the water, frightening Merrick a bit and making John laugh.

"Three days," John murmured to himself.


	19. Good, Very Good

London wasn't horribly hot, the hotel had a fan in the corner to combat the slight warmth. It was, by most accounts, a pleasant day, one meant for lazing about. Sherlock found himself walking back and forth in the main room. It was almost the size of a small flat, a whole storey of one of the most expensive hotels in the town, and a present from Mycroft. The idea that his brother might know what was to go on in the bedroom made Sherlock gag a bit.

He was pacing because he was nervous. He knew he shouldn't have been nervous, but there he was trying to plow a rut into the thick rug.

John was to arrive later in the day and something in Sherlock's mind kept suggesting that he wouldn't, that he'd spend the whole of the afternoon waiting strangely in his knickers just to be alone at sunset. He looked down at his half naked body and felt his cheeks flushing. He was trying for sexy, going for as suggestive as he could, but it felt all wrong.

He quickly pulled his trousers and shirt back on and pulled the key to the room from his pocket. Rolling up his sleeves, he left and locked the room and made his way down the stairs. The man at the front knew that his 'colleague' would be arriving later and nodded at him as he walked out to the street.

He was promptly run over by two boys, clothes ragged and skin dark with soot and dirt, who were trying to pickpocket him. Trying was the key word here only because Sherlock managed to stop them. They looked up at him in surprise and then broke into matching, toothy, grins.

"Five years we've not seen you!" the one exclaimed.

"Thought you got ate by the rat down by the river," the other added.

"Did not!" the first replied, flustered.

"You did, too! Sulking about after James told us it was real!" the second chided.

"Either way," Sherlock interrupted, happy to see that the boys had survived the few years since he'd been living in London, as many didn't, "I'm alive. How is your mum?"

"She's fine, sir," the first (...Samuel?) said.

"We got a sister now as well," the second chimed in.

Sherlock smiled at them. "I should like to meet her."

"Then quit standing about all posh-like and let us show you the way," Samuel said confidently.

Sherlock chuckled and remembered how mouthy they'd both been even at six. "By all means, lead the way."

They walked towards the rail yard, the boys kicking small rocks along the way and telling Sherlock everything he needed to know about the changes they'd gone through over the years. The coppers were still arseholes and the baker on twelfth street still gave away bread at night. Sherlock felt nostalgia thick on his tongue at the stories and wished he'd been around during the years.

"What's new with you, sir?" Terence, yes, that was his name, asked.

"I may be moving back in a few months," Sherlock said, smiling softly at their looks of joy and wondering what John would think of his gaggle of street children, "with a friend of mine."

Samuel looked less than pleased at the caveat. "Who's this friend, then? Not that bum, Victor, I hope."

Sherlock shook his head and wondered at how much children picked up without your knowing. "No, he's, he's a new friend. A vicar."

Boy boys perked up at that so Sherlock went on. "He also used to be a doctor. Probably won't mind helping out you and your mum."

"Can your friend look at auntie's leg?" Terence asked.

"Can he come now?" Samuel added.

Sherlock wondered if it was a bit not good to offer John's services without the man's knowledge, but the boys were like family. "He'll be here tonight."

_____

The phone in the vicarage rang just as John was about to leave. Mrs Hudson got to it first and answered, eyes going wide before holding the receiver to her chest to muffle the sound.

"John Watson," she said, her tone that of a disapproving matriarch, "how dare you tell me your sister was sick?"

A lump grew in John's throat. His sister. Oh, shite, how had his sister got the phone number of the vicarage? He'd thought it was the best of lies.

"I'm not sure-" he tried.

"Sherlock says you're to bring your medical kit when you come to London tonight," she explained, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, I'm just stopping by on my-" John tried a second time.

"I'm not an idiot, dearie. And I'm certainly not the type to care what goes on in the hearts of men like you," Mrs Hudson said definitively.

"Men like me?" John found himself saying, the words coming out strained and unbidden.

"Good men," Mrs H replied. "Now, I'm going to get your things ready for the cab. Your man is on the phone."

John took the receiver from her, not sure he'd ever be able to breathe comfortably again, and held it to his ear. "You know, you've given us away. Mrs Hudson knows I'm not going to see-"

"John, I don't know what to do," Sherlock interrupted. "I've not seen anything like this. At first I thought it just a cut-"

John stood taller and pushed his shoulders back. "Get them to a doctor."

"No doctor will see a street woman," Sherlock said, exasperated. 

"Where is the wound?" John asked.

_____

By the time John got to London, catching the train just in time and pacing the whole way there, the woman was resting on one of their hotel room's beds, the expensive silk sheets soaking up sweat and blood, and she was alive.

There was a porter at the door arguing about the situation when John pushed his way past. "I'm a doctor! Out of the way!"

Sherlock had done a fine job in cleaning the wound and the bleeding had finally stopped. He was still arguing with the now silent porter when John wrestled his old medic bag open and starting stitching things up.

The porter continued to speak but Sherlock's entire being was focused on John. He was good with his hands, very good, and was soothing the woman even as his instruments pulled at her skin. One of the boys sidled up to Sherlock and cocked his head. Sherlock glanced down at him for a moment and then back to John.

"He's a proper doctor, then?" the boy asked.

Sherlock grunted in agreement and closed the door in the porter's face. There was a strangled yell from the other side, but it was ignored in favor of the makeshift surgery.

"Sherlock, get the pain pills from my bag. Small white bottle," John said over his shoulder. 

Sherlock scrambled over and pulled two bottles out, chose the white one, and set it on the bedside table. John was telling the woman what she was to do to keep the wound clean and how often to take the pills and Sherlock's chest was doing something peculiar. It was expanding, at least it felt it, expanding until he felt as big as the room they were in. He was close to overflowing with the need to kiss John, the need to pull at his lips with his teeth and rut against his leg.

John was so...competent. It was a strange thing to find so bloody arousing, but there it was. 

Sherlock did a very good impersonation of a mime for the next half hour while the procedure was finished and the porter was convinced to be public spirited, and not kick them out on their arses. He even stayed quiet as they took a short shower and changed the bed, by then the silence felt like a steel cage around him.

When they were finally in their pyjamas and sitting on the other bed, John looked him in the eye and refused to look away. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice soft around the edges even as he sounded like the doctor he had proven himself to be.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted, the words spilling out of him before he could think better of it. He was a little frightened by his own voice.

"Sherlock," John tried.

"We were supposed to be coming on a mini-break and I was going to lay in bed and wait for you, but I was nervous, and so I went walking and I brought a wounded homeless woman back to the hotel," Sherlock explained, face pinched.

"You were nervous?" John asked, latching onto the one thing Sherlock would rather he not.

Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms. "That's really not what I was trying to say."

"It's the only bit that concerns me, though," John replied.

"Surely, that's an exaggeration," Sherlock whispered.

"Not in the least. It was refreshing to get my bag out again. It's been too long since I've sewn someone up," John admitted.

Sherlock barely gave him a second to breathe, after noting that he was telling the truth, before turning and kneeling over his lap, lips pressed soundly to his neck.

"Oh," John moaned, hands going to Sherlock's hips and head falling back to thump against the wall.

Sherlock pulled at his hair and kissed along his neck, breath hot and ragged against John's skin, and started picking at the buttons of John's pyjama shirt. John pushed him back and yanked it over his head, grinning as Sherlock wrestled his own shirt off and sat back, breathing roughly and nearly glowing.

"You were..." Sherlock tried, gulping air, "very good."

John let out an odd laugh and pulled Sherlock closer, hands going to his arse. "Was I, then?"

"Y-yes," Sherlock squeaked.

"Would you like to be very good for me, now?" John asked, ignoring the voice in his head that told him this was much too pleasurable.

"John," Sherlock panted in response, eyes falling closed as John massaged his arse and pulled his cheeks apart.

"Take these off," John said, pulling at the waist of Sherlock's pyjama trousers.

Sherlock scrambled to get them off and then pulled at John's until the man lifted his hips and allowed himself to be fully disrobed. The look that had been in Sherlock's eyes every single time they'd gone about this was back. He looked to be concentrating very hard.

John glanced to the door once more to make sure it was latched properly and then leaned in to kiss Sherlock. "Tell me what you need."

Sherlock straddled him again and whimpered as their cocks rubbed together. "Your fingers. Like before."

John reached for his suitcase and pulled out the small jar of mineral oil that had become their most reliable tool, opening it and holding his breath as Sherlock's mouth fell open and his hips rolled on their own. He dipped his fingers into the stuff, up to the first knuckle, and reached between Sherlock's legs to rub at his arsehole.

The few times they'd participated in this type of intimate massage had been near overwhelming. John was still amazed that Sherlock allowed him this, the closeness, the first breath of breach. 

They kissed as John wriggled the first finger in and out, eyes closed and tongues searching. John had never done it to himself, let alone had someone do it to him, so he honestly couldn't say what it felt like. Sherlock loved it. He'd been surprisingly open about his physical wants after that first night, wants that just seemed to expand each day. Even now, as John was working two fingers into his body, he was pushing back and asking for more.

"Tell me," John pleaded, voice a soft rasp. "Tell me."

"Your prick," Sherlock huffed, stuffed full and aching for more.

They hadn't done that before, but every inch of John's body was singing to him about what a brilliant idea it was. Brilliant, truly brilliant. He pulled his fingers from Sherlock and poured a small amount of the oil on his cock, stroking it once.

"Hold it up," Sherlock said, eyes wide and mouth open as he wriggled his hips and started to lower himself.

The head of John's cock was thicker than two fingers, but Sherlock was relaxed and eager and somehow, it fit. John let out a funny, tight little sound and Sherlock looked up from where they met to grin at him, a dizzy sort of smile and deep flush making him look almost mad. John smiled back at him reassuringly, even as his mind was spinning and his body yelling at him to enter that tight heat fully, to grasp and push and claim.

"That good?" John asked, voice far from even.

"Ah," Sherlock replied, unable to form words, "ah, ah."

John swallowed roughly and held onto Sherlock's hips as he settled down, bit by bit, until he was flush and John's prick was deep in him.

"Jesus," John sighed.

It wasn't the first time he'd used that name in vain, but it was the first time he'd used it in vain whilst bollocks deep in an arsehole, and the bizarreness of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. It started with one laugh, a guffaw, and went downhill from there.

Soon enough, both men were laughing uncontrollably. When Sherlock decided to lift off a bit and then sink back down, the laughter turned to gasps. 

Tight, bloody hot and tight. 

Sherlock moved again, slowly, and then once more. Before they knew it, he had found a rhythm and was bouncing up and down in John's lap like he couldn't get enough. John hushed him a bit, though the sounds he was making weren't even loud enough to be considered moans, and wrapped his arms around his back.

"I can't hold on much longer, love," he whispered against Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, dear god, come inside me," Sherlock growled back, finding the right angle and arching his back wildly.

John felt something in him shift and he was coming, bollocks pulled up tight and twitching as he emptied into Sherlock. His thighs were still shaking when Sherlock went rigid in his lap and gave two tense strokes to his cock, spilling what semen he had onto John's chest.

"Oh, that's happening again," Sherlock squeaked, falling against John's chest with a sigh.

John laughed and held him close. "You'll have to give me a few hours."

"You saved that woman's life," Sherlock said, voice sounding suddenly certain. "Untreated, she would have got sepsis."

The non sequitur had John sitting up a bit straighter. 

"Alright," he said, not sure what else to say.

"You're a very good man," Sherlock added, noting that it was a strange thing to say with someone's cock still up your bum.

"Sherlock," John said, just an edge of pleading in it.

Sherlock sat back, the wet feeling a bit strange, and kissed John. And John, John kissed him back.


	20. Wholly Good

Sherlock and John woke the next morning around dawn. They were wrapped in each other's arms under the covers, a luxury they'd only had the luck to experience once before. Sherlock squirmed against John and nuzzled his neck, the affection in him bubbling over.

"Do you want to see the house today?" he asked, barely raising his head to do so.

John kissed him on the forehead and grinned. "Absolutely."

"We'll have a home soon. To ourselves," Sherlock whispered, almost as if to himself.

"We will," John whispered back. "Now let's get up and have breakfast."

Sherlock groaned but followed John into the loo, getting his toiletries from his bag and brushing his teeth. It was simple domesticity, and it was wonderful. They bumped shoulders and grinned through the foam and John thought that it must have been what God wanted for him, to be this happy, this content. He couldn't think of a loving God who wouldn't believe in that.

Loving Sherlock, he thought once again, was so simple, so natural.

"You're staring," Sherlock teased. "Did you manage a bump to the head on the train ride down here?"

John poked him in the side and rinsed his mouth. "That sounds like a complaint. Strange, coming from the man who preens at every look."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide and his cheeks flushed. "I have never preened in my life."

"You're my pretty boy, and you love it," John said, voice low and lips quirking.

Sherlock couldn't help the small sway of his hips, and soon found himself rushing forward to bury his face against John's neck. "You horrible man. Don't tell a soul."

"Mmm. Wouldn't dream of it," John soothed. "Breakfast now."

"All you think about is eating," Sherlock complained, pulling himself away and going to properly dress.

"All I think about is you," John corrected, doing the same.

_____

There was a small cafe just down the street and they sat outside eating and taking in the park across the way and the unsurprising throng of people out. It was a lovely day, even that early. The trees and flowers were all in bloom and the sun wasn't particularly oppressive yet. The heat wave might come back, but for now a gentle breeze tickled the plants and the awning above the door.

They were just about finished with breakfast, both of them feeling prematurely that they were starting a new life, when Sherlock perked up. His focus turned intent and John could've sworn he'd seen the same look on Merrick when the random bird landed in a tree nearby.

"You alright?" John asked.

Sherlock looked to him, and then back again with record speed. "Man on the corner. He's talking to the woman in hushed tones because he doesn't want anyone to hear what he's saying."

John tried to look over his shoulder casually, and nearly succeeded. "Alright, what is he saying."

"I think he's about to rob her. They know each other. He's desperate," Sherlock murmured, eyes transfixed.

"Well, should we call the police?" John asked, looking uncertain.

"No time. Follow me. Go along with what I say," Sherlock said, placing some notes on the table and walking towards the two.

John followed without hesitation.

"And we've been looking for something to buy her mother for ages. Lord knows she's picky," Sherlock said, his effusive manner only an obvious ploy to John.

Sherlock stopped in front of the man and woman and smiled at them. He turned to look at the necklace that John assumed the man was trying to steal. It was elegant and studded with stones. John had a feeling they weren't paste.

"Now that's handsome," Sherlock said, nodding to the necklace. "John, why don't you keep this man busy while I pester his friend."

John led the man away, even as he was reluctant, with talk of the weather and other useless things.

Sherlock ducked in, pretending to appraise the necklace, and spoke in a quiet but firm tone. "Your friend there was going to try to steal your necklace. Perhaps an arm around the neck, perhaps something requiring a bit more force. Either way, you'd best get away from him."

The woman's eyes went wide and she nodded. "Will you walk me home?"

"I'd be delighted," Sherlock replied, holding his arm out for her to take.

John noticed them starting to chat amiably, but for the tense brow of the woman, and the man next to him frowned.

"John, would you believe our families know each other? I've asked if we can come over and see her dear mother. Tea and biscuits all around," Sherlock chirped.

"Sounds good to me," John said, turning to dismiss the man. "Have a nice day. We'll be off now."

"Perhaps I could come along," the man pressed, seeing his window of opportunity closing right in front of him.

"And sneak away to steal the jewelry out of her own home, right from under our noses?" Sherlock asked, suddenly seeming taller. "I think not."

"Look," the man sputtered. "I don't know what you think-"

"Trousers mended three times," Sherlock began, "look of hunger. The dark circles under your eyes and bloody callouses on your fingers suggest you're working yourself almost literally to the bone. Yet you can't afford to get your shoes fixed, walking about with holes in the bottom of both. You've know this woman for quite some time, but instead of looking at her face when you speak, your eyes flit from her purse to her necklace. You're desperate. Desperate men do desperate things. I think it's best if you don't see what might happen if you try to steal from a woman in front of myself and my companion. We're rather public spirited."

The man had gone sallow, obviously surprised and overwhelmed by being caught out.

John felt himself grinning, had actually never felt more alive. He followed Sherlock and the woman, finally catching up and linking his arm with hers, and swore he was walking on clouds.

"I want to thank you so much for that," the woman said as they walked.

Sherlock scoffed and reached out just as they made it into Regent's park, picking a flower and presenting it to her. "Men like him deserved to be dragged before the whole of the city. I haven't had such fun in a long while."

She grinned and tucked the flower into her hair as John watched on.

'That's my man,' John wanted to say proudly. 'Isn't he grand?' 

They kept walking, a breeze picking up and teasing them as they made their way through the park. The woman told them about her life, going on even as Sherlock was obviously off in his own mind. 

Her gratitude promoted her to offer them tea when they arrived at her home.

"I'm sorry, but we have plans we must get to," John said, nodding to Sherlock, who had only just seemed delivered back from the mental space he sometimes wandered off to.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Quite pressing matters."

"I'll remember you, Sherlock Holmes," she said smiling to them both before closing the door.

John turned to Sherlock and couldn't help the look of all out adoration on his face. "You really are a mystery."

Sherlock looked a bit confused, but smiled and kept up as the walked back through the park. "How so?"

"You hate people, but care so much about them. How can that be?" John asked, folding his hands behind his back as to not reach out and touch the other man.

"I don't hate people, necessarily. It's more of a constant disappointment. People as a whole are unremarkable, so they bore me. It doesn't mean I don't enjoy making bad people look like fools. I just can't stand to see someone being taken advantage of," Sherlock admitted.

"You are wholly good," John said, a deep breath expanding his chest, "and I want nothing more than to eat you up."

Sherlock's eyes went wide before he was able to school his appearance. "Why, Doctor. Is that any way to speak in public?" he asked, going for teasing humor but coming across more than a bit breathy.

"Not at all," John shot back. "Which is exactly why I believe we should continue this conversation in private."

Sherlock felt himself blush further at the implication, and picked up speed, eager to be back in their room.


	21. Love And Curtains

The second the door was locked behind them, John was pulling Sherlock close by the collar of his shirt and kissing him. Sherlock huffed into his mouth, feeling dizzy and as though he wouldn't be able to stand much longer. The feeling intensified as John went to his knees before him and pressed him bodily to the wall, fingers opening his flies and pulling his prick out.

"You wonderful man," John whispered, leaning in and tentatively giving Sherlock a lick.

Sherlock shuddered and clenched his eyes closed, willing himself not to cry out at the treatment.

John took his time, laving his tongue against the soft underside as Sherlock's cock filled out in his hand. He found that he wasn't nearly as hesitant as he'd expected to be, once he felt Sherlock's reactions. The man was shivering at every touch and nearly fell to his knees when John took just the tip between his lips and licked.

John grinned and ran his tongue in a circle. Less than a minute suckling a him and Sherlock pulled at his hair and he sat back, panting, just in time for Sherlock to grasp the head of his cock and come into his handkerchief. 

Sherlock's head was still spinning as he heard the skin on skin sound of John stroking himself and the grunt of his completion. John cleaned himself somehow and gathered Sherlock up in his arms, walking him to the bed they'd shared the night prior and devesting him of his clothes without a word.

Sherlock let himself be moved and tucked in, but only let his eyes fall closed when John had joined him under the covers. The fan near the bed was on, earlier than it had any true right to be, so they pulled the overstuffed duvet up to their chins and fell into a synchronised bout of giggles.

"Naked under the covers at half eleven," Sherlock murmured. "We really are taking this holiday seriously."

"Give us an hour. We'll see how it goes, and perhaps, if you're very good, it can be a regular occurrence," John murmured, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls and nosing his neck.

"You'll spoil me for the whole world this way," Sherlock replied, his breath hot against the crown of John's head. "Whetting my sexual appetite and giving me cause to sleep in the middle of the day."

John nuzzled more closely and sighed. "Sounds perfect to me. Now let me sleep."

_____

Three hours later they were up and dressed again, this time after a perfunctory shower, and heading to see the house on Baker Street. 

There were people bustling around inside, cleaning and straightening. It surprised John, but Sherlock seemed to have expected it. He pushed them past the first group and up to the upper storey, closing and latching the door behind them and walking to the far wall to look at the street below.

"Mycroft said we should get a maid. It occurred to me that we could insist that Mrs Hudson and her sister take the downstairs. The sister lives here in town. I'm sure she could be persuaded," Sherlock said, eyes flitting back and forth on the street.

"I think that's a brilliant idea, though you shouldn't let Mrs H hear you use the word maid," John said, joining Sherlock at the window and standing in parade's rest a pace away.

He found himself surprised by the sounds of the city, even after a day and a half of being back. There were cars and people making their way back and forth below, a boy yelling out things to be bought on the corner, and people sitting outside the café below talking over coffees. He could barely hear his own thoughts with the window open.

"They'll have a replacement for me sooner than we thought," he admitted. 

Sherlock glanced over. "Don't leave me here to question it," he said, obviously trying to not let on how anxious he was to hear more.

"They were sending someone for me to mentor. He'll be in town by next sermon," John explained.

Sherlock took a step closer. "And?"

"Within the month," John said, nodding once to show it wasn't a ruse.

"I hate this sofa," Sherlock sputtered, eyebrows drawing together.

John choked out a laugh and reached out, hand stopping just short of Sherlock's shoulder. He had to remember what could be seen from the street. It was best not to arouse suspicion from soon to be neighbors and he knew that even a simple touch from him would be obvious to some.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to find another, then," he said.

"I hate the curtains, as well," Sherlock pressed, heart beating rapidly.

John grinned. "Then they'll have to go."

"We'll need new plates, and cutlery," Sherlock added, lips twitching.

"And linens?" John asked, amused by Sherlock's excitement.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock agreed, nodding frantically and dragging John into the bedroom.

"A new wardrobe?" John suggested.

"I love you," Sherlock gushed.

John laughed again and pulled him close, kissing him in the dark of the room, and holding him tight.


End file.
